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Price 25 Cents. 


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[No. 26.] 


Entered at the Post Office at New York at Second Class Rates.~Nov. 29, 1890. 


Copyrighted by George Munro, 1890.— By Subscription, $3.00 per Annum. 


Library of 
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MANCH. 


By Mi s. Mary E. Bryan, 

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MANCH 



By MARY E. BRYAN. 


“ I’m most as bad off about a name as I am about a daddy and mammy. 
Granny calls me Cub, and that means a young bear; and t’oihers calls me 
Manch, and that means as bad.” 

” Manch ! What does it mean?” 

” Why, the wise folks that says Harriet’s my mother, says my father is a 
Comanche Injun— a brave that was hung or shot some time or other for tak- 
ing scalps. They call me Comanche from him— Manch for short, you know. 
Do 1 look like an Injun?” 



J 



t C- 


^ NEW YORK : 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 Vanpewateb Street. 


{ 


V 


OOPTKIGHT BT 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
1879. 


M A N C H. 


CHAPTER I. 

The sun rose above the great wall of woods that girt 
the horizon : the mist rolled up from the river like a cur- 
tain and revealed the village of Bear’s Bend. Village it 
could hardly be called — a mere border settlement in a 
Western Territory — a handful of log cabins scattered 
along the eastern bank of a river, and along the bayou that 
here returned to its parent stream. Fertile though half- 
cultivated fields lay immediately about this little nucleus 
of civilization, and beyond these stretched the virgin 
forest. The houses were grouped mostly along the lower 
portion of a broad elbow of the river, which seemed to 
bend in here to meet the bayou — a mere rivulet in dry 
seasons, but a stream of formidable width during the 
‘‘ rainy spell.” 

As the first rays of the sun pierced the mist of the 
river, the blacksmith swung open the door of his shanty 
and began to kindle a fire in his forge. He was not the 
first to be astir ^t Bear’s Bend. “ Cheap Jacob,” the 
proprietor of the one “store” — a combination of dry- 


4 


MAKCH. 


goods store, grocery, and grog-shop — was before him, and 
had been standing some time, pipe in mouth, at the door 
of his establishment, on the lookout for customers. A 
flatboat had brought him a fresh supply of goods and 
whisky the evening before, and he anticipated lively 
trade. “ Sheap Jacob, der People’s friend,” as he styled 
himself, was a huge-nosed, keen-eyed specimen of that 
indefatigable race which is sure to follow, with budget of 
“ dry goots,” in the footsteps of the adventurous pioneer. 
Jacob’s transactions were by no means confined to cash. 
Dried meats, hides, furs, tallow, wax, and other results 
of backwoods marksmanship and industry, were piled in 
the back part of his shop, until such time as his partner 
shpuld convey them in his flatboat to Fair town, a more 
important village fifty miles down the river, and there 
exchange them for civilized products or for money. 
Sometimes, though rarely, a bag or a handful of the 
precious dust itself came into the clutches of the little 
Jew ; for miners, returning from the gold-hills farther 
west, occasionally took a route that led them by Bear’s 
Bend, and refreshed their inner man with liquor, and 
their outer with new clothes from Jacob’s shelves. He 
had thriven by his trade, and instead of his former shanty 
had now, as his “store,” a cabin more pretentious than his 
neighbors’, built just at the junction of the river and 
bayou, streaked here and there with red paint, and sur- 
mounted by a sign that announced, in astonishing letters, 
“Wear House here, and fine whisky and dry goots for 
sale.” 

As the morning advanced, Jacob’s customers began to 
drop in, some of them bringing fresh skins of deer, bear, 
or wildcat, which having disposed of in trade, they pro- 




6 


needed to tack tip on tke outside of tke store, giving that 
building a sinister aspect. By the time the sun was an 
hour high quite a group had collected upon the little 
stoop in front of the shop. They sat perched upon bar- 
rels, or sprawled upon the hewn-log benches, discussing 
old or recent hunts, the crop prospects, the probability of 
an Indian raid, or gravely commenting upon such tidings 
of the busy world as could be gleaned from a newspaper 
a month old, brought by Jacob’s partner of the flatboat. 
No matter what its date, a newspaper was a godsend to 
the citizens of Bear’s Bend, and was by common consent 
put into the hands of Captain Brown, who read it aloud 
to the attentive group in a voice that sounded like a gen- 
eral’s addressing his troops. 

He was a remarkable-looking personage, this Captain 
Brown, notwithstanding his very common name. In any 
crowd the eye would have singled him out as beyond the 
ordinary. Here, at Bear’s Bend, he was looked upon as 0 
a kind of chief, by virtue of the inherent right to rule 
expressed in his eye and voice. As for his antecedents, 
the settlers knew nothing and cared but little. All they • 
knew was that he appeared among them suddenly at the 
close of an autumn day, riding a blooded but jaded horse, 
and carrying as his only baggage a female child upon the 
pommel of his saddle and a rifle across his shoulder. The 
possession of the child won for him the sympathy of the 
women, and his superior handling of the gun secured the 
respectful consideration of the men. Indeed, so skilled 
did he show himself in the use of this trusty friend of the 
backwoodsman, and so cool and keen in the hunt, that he 
was chosen leader in an affray with the Indians that took 
place shortly after his settling at Bear’s Bend. 


6 


MAJ^CIt, 


The dignified reserve of his manner, and his reputa- 
tion for high laming,’’ as well as for unflinching integ- 
rity, caused him to be invested with the authority of a 
kind of judge, and he was appealed to to settle all disputes 
and give judgment on all important matters occurring in 
the community. On only one point did he show weak- 
ness — his treatment of his daughter. He at the same 
time indulged and neglected her, until it was no mar- 
vel that she grew up warm-hearted, passionately fond 
of her father, but impulsive and willful. But utterly as 
he neglected the improvement of her mind, he seemed to 
build hopes of some kind upon the girl, and often spoke 
of sending her back to the States to be educated, “ after 
a while,” seeming strangely unconscious of the fact that 
she was fast growing up, and was no longer a little child ; 
and it was therefore a most unlooked-for shock to him 
when the girl, in her fifteenth year, married into a family 
that was contemned and looked down upon in the settle- 
ment. Border society is by no means nice or difficult of 
access ; but when it chooses to ostracize it does so more 
effectually and terribly than can be done by the leaders 
of the Jiaut monde. 

The father of the young man who married Milly 
Brown had committed the unpardonable crime of turning 
traitor to his race and color ; was accused of painting him- 
self as an Indian, and joining the savages in a raid upon 
the whites. There was no positive proof, but circumstan- 
tial evidence was so strong that the settlers served Lynch 
law upon him, by hanging him on the great Live Oak, near 
the old block-house that had been the nucleus of their set- 
tlement. The family was thenceforth shunned and de- 
graded below the level of savages. The fierce, bitter old 


MAJ^CH, 


7 


motlier acquired the reputation of a witch, and was said 
to “ conjure ” any unfortunate horse or pig that might 
stray into her corn-field ; according to the report, these 
always came out blind or with a shriveled leg. The two 
sons hunted and fished by themselves, and avoided meet- 
ing their neighbors, while the girl plied her wheel and 
loom in solitude, and peeped shyly at passers-by as though 
they were beings of a different order from herself. 

Neil Griffin’s marriage with the daughter of the 
‘‘ Cap’n ” was a matter of great astonishment to the 
neighbors, but it came about in a natural way. The 
young man rendered the girl some service — ^fished her 
out of the river into which her heedlessness had upset 
her — and so excited at the same time her gratitude and 
her admiration of his pluck and promptitude. Her sym- 
pathy was also awakened for a being so isolated ; and it 
all ended in a marriage to which she would not suffer the 
young man to ask her father’s consent, knowing well that 
it would not have been given. It was a terrible blow to 
Captain Brown, but he bore it in silence and gave no sign. 
Indeed, after a time, he seemed reconciled in part to his 
daughter, and even showed some appreciation of the ear- 
nest and patient efforts made by Neil Griffin to gain his 
good will. 

See him now as he reads, in a soiled and crumpled 
copy of the Chicago Times,” the account of an exciting 
political mass meeting in that city. Note how his bony 
fingers twist nervously in his long, iron-gray hair and 
beard. News of politics, of successful speculation, of gold- 
gambling, or any similar stirring occurrence in the busy 
world, always excited him in this way. Ordinarily it was 
not apparent, unless to a nice observer. Now, however. 


8 


MAJfCH. 


the vivid description produced an unusual effect ; there 
was a tremor in his firm, military voice, and when he 
looked up you caught a flash from his eye that startled 
you. It was eager — almost wild. It made you fancy 
that the reason he drooped his eyes in his habitually ab-' 
stracted fashion was to hide the fire of a restless soul — a 
fire which leaped up at a breath from the outer world. 
Looking at him, you wondered if this grim, taciturn hunt- 
er was ever an actor in that world of politics, trade, and 
speculation, whose distant echo now stirred him as a 
bugle-blast stirs the idle war-horse. 

It is not likely that his companions indulged in any 
such speculations. One at least did not. Cheap Jacob’s 
imagination seldom extended beyond the radius of the 
dollar. His keen eye just then discove ed a flat coming 
across the bayou, containing three men, and he interrupted 
the reader by exclaiming : 

‘^Well! dat ish Tom lieed and Dick Allan coming 
back ! What for dey cooms so soon, I wonder ! ” 

“ They went out on a bear-hunt to be gone all day,” 
remarked another, half raising himself and leaning on his 
elbow. They’ve left their horses on yon side.” 

“ I lets ’em have hard-tack, and powder, and whisky, 
and dey bees to pay in meat and skins ; and now dey 
cooms back mit noting, as I can see.” 

‘‘ There’s Neil Griffin with them,” said another. “ Did 
he go bear-hunting too ? ” 

“ Not he,” was the answer. He is too busy working 
on his house. That fellow looks as if he wanted to kill 
himself with work since he married. I suppose he wants 
to make a fortune for his little e^al.” 

‘‘Wants to please the Cap’n, you’d better say. I’m 




9 


blamed if he wouldn’t be willing to sign papers and agree 
to be a slave for the Cap’n all his life, just to get into his 
good graces,” spoke another of the group, glancing at 
Captain Brown, who had been wont to smile grimly when 
similar remarks were made in his hearing. But now his 
face was shaded by his hand, and its expression was con- 
cealed. 

“Well, dere ish someting at the bottom of the flat,” 
said the Jew, continuing his examination, “but I makes 
it out more man dan bear.” 

“ It is a man ! ” cried another — “ a man lying down 
there asleep, or dead. I say, men, ain’t that blood on his 
face and breast ? ” 

Instantly every man sprang to his feet and hurried 
down to the bank to which the flat was now approaching. 

A little farther down the bayou, in a log-cabin close 
to the water-side, another person was watching the ap- 
proach of the flat in which the loungers at the store were 
so much interested. It was a very girlish face that looked 
from the small window hung with purple-blossomed “ trav- 
eler’s delight.” Indeed, the immature features, the youth- 
ful droop and curve of the shoulders, and that wistful, 
someway pathetic look about the eyes and mouth gave 
the impression of its being almost a child’s face. She 
looked out a little anxiously along the river, and her eyes 
lighted up as she caught sight of the flat. 

“ Yes, there’s Neil,” she said. “ I am glad he’s com- 
ing back so soon. I’ll have breakfast all ready and be 
pleasant-like to make amends for what I said last night. 
After all, I ought not to grumble about being poor with 
such a kind husband. I never did such a thing before. 
It all came of that man showing his gold and jewels, and 


10 


MAJfCH. 


telling about the fine things he meant to give the wife 
and children he had not seen for so long. Oh ! I do love 
beautiful things ! I should like so much to wear jewels 
and long, fiowing dresses, bright-colored like the clouds, 
and to live in a house with white walls and pictures, and 
be able to hear music, and be accomplished as my mother 
must have been. I know my mother was a lady. She 
looks like I suppose a lady must look.” 

She opened a little carved wooden box that Neil had 
made for her, and which contained her few small treasures, 
and took from it a miniature in a plain case attached to 
a ribbon. It represented a lovely woman handsomely 
dressed. 

‘‘ Yes, my mother was a lady. How sweet and grand 
she looks ! She has a ring on her pretty hand. I won- 
der if it is a diamond like the one the old miner showed 
us last night? What would I give to wear such a ring 
as that ? But if I had it I would sell it. No doubt it 
would bring a great price, and the money would help 
Neil to get rich ; and if he were rich, perhaps my father 
would like him. Oh ! if my father would but like Neil, 
I should be happy enough.” 

She sighed, and the long brown lashes dropped for 
an instant upon her cheek. Then turning to the window 
she looked out again, and saw that the fiat had landed 
opposite the store, and the three men had got out. 

“Neil has brought over some men in the fiat,” thought 
Milly. “ They are hunters and have some kind of big 
game — bear, it looks like. They’ll go to the store, but 
Neil will be here directly.” 

She put up her miniature carefully, and went to put 
the breakfast, that had been kept warm by the fire, upon 


MAJfCH. 


11 


the table in readiness for him. But the oatmeal cakes 
grew stiff, and the broiled venison was cold, before she 
heard a footstep at the door. Then it was not NeiPs 
quick tread, but a hesitating, shuffling bare footstep. She 
was sitting down upon the floor giving the kitten its 
breakfast, but rose quickly and went to the door. There 
stood a hard-featured youth with a shock of red hair and 
small eyes, that made a point of looking everywhere but 
at your face while he spoke to you. 

“ You are wanted at the store,” he said suddenly, roll- 
ing his eyes in a direction opposite the girl. 

“Me! Wanted at the store? What’s the matter? 
Is IN’eil sick ? ” asked Milly excitedly. 

“JSTo.” 

“ Is my father there ? ” 

“He’s there.” 

“Is anything the matter with him ? ” 

“Ho.” 

“ What am I wanted for ? What has happened ? ” 
inquired Milly. 

“ I was told to tell you you was wanted at the store, 
and I tolled you,” said the boy, rolling his marble between 
his Angers and staring hard at the rafters overhead. 

“ Well, that’s comical,” said Milly, laughing nervous- 
ly as she tied a handkerchief over her short curls and fol- 
lowed the boy. 

As she neared the store, she saw that something un- 
usual had occurred. Every male individual in the settle- 
ment, boy and man, was there. They were standing in 
groups, and talking and gesticulating excitedly ; but all 
became quiet as Milly stepped upon the porch. She 
looked around at their grave, agitated faces, and her 


12 


MAKCH. 


heart beat wildly. She saw her father standing a little 
to one side, his tall stature and iron-gray head showing 
above the rest. In front of her, leaning against the wall, 
was Ileil, very pale and strange-looking, as she saw at a 
glance. His eye was upon her, and she was at his side 
in an instant. 

‘‘ Heil, what is it ? What has happened ? ” 

“ Don’t be frightened,” he said. “ Don’t do yourself 
a hurt, Milly ; be calm.” 

“ Why have they sent for me, Heil ? ” 

‘‘ They want to ask you some questions.” 

“ Questions ? about what ? What is the matter with 
your hand, Heil?” she asked, trying to take his right 
hand out of his bosom, in which he had been keeping it 
while she talked to him. He resisted her attempt to do 
so for a moment ; then suddenly, while an expression 
of intense pain passed over his face, he drew it out and 
held it before her eyes. She started ; there was blood 
upon it. 

“ Heil, you are hurt,” she exclaimed, as she examined 
the bloody hand eagerly to see the extent of the injury. 
But she found no wound. 

‘‘ Heil, what blood is this ?” 

He shook his head. She looked sharply into his face, 
then turned and looked into the faces of those around 
him, while a sick feeling crept to her heart. 

‘‘ Your father will tell you about it,” said Neil huskily, 
as he gave her over to Captain Brown, who had now 
come to her side. ‘‘ Don’t be too sudden with her,” he 
said. “ Eemember her condition.” Then turning him- 
self half round, he locked his hands before him, and stood 
staring down at his blood-stained fingers, like one in a 


MAJfCH. 


13 


dream. Milly turned to her father with eyes full of anx- 
ious appealing. 

“ Men,” he said, with a slight wave of his hand to- 
ward the assembled villagers, “ here is my daughter ; ask 
her what you wish.” 

‘‘No, no, Cap’n,” demurred several voices at once. 
“ Ask her yourself ; you miderstand all about it.” 

“ And you know how to be easy with her, poor thing,” 
added an old hunter, whose heart was in the right place. 

“ Milly,” said her father — and it was noticeable that 
his usually firm voice trembled with pardonable emotion 
— “what time did your husband leave the house this 
morning ? ” 

“ He went off at daybreak, to put a man across the 
river who had stopped with us all night. The man asked 
Neil to go with him a little way to put him on the road 
to Fairtown.” 

“ Who was this man, and what was his age and ap- 
pearance ? ” 

“ He was a miner, all the way from the gold-diggings, 
and was going home. He was a middle-aged man, with 
long, grayish hair and beard, and wore dressed buckskin 
breeches and — ” 

“ Did he have mooch money, child ? ” interrupted the 
Jew. 

Milly hesitated, and looked back at her husband, but 
he did not raise his eyes. 

“ Speak out,” said her father./ “ Did he have money ? ” 

“ Yes ; he had gold and diamonds. He did not want 
any one to know it, for fear of being robbed. He 
showed it to us, because he seemed to take to my hus- 
band ; and, besides, I think he was drinking a good deal 


14 


MAXCII. 


of whisky. He was in high spirits about going home, 
and was very open with us about his money.” 

“ Where did he carry it \ ” 

“ In a leather belt around his waist, a part of it, and 
some of it was quilted in a vest he had on, made out of a 
rattlesnake’s skin. He had lumps of gold and a bag of 
diamonds, which he said came from Brazil.” 

“ Mein Fader ! ” exclaimed the Jew. ^ 

Had the man any diamond rings, Milly ? ” asked the 
Captain of the bewildered and troubled girl. 

“ Yes, he had one. It was roughly set. I think he 
told ns he did it himself.” 

‘‘ Like this ? ” cried the Jew, running up to Is eil, and 
holding up the prisoner’s hand, on the little finger of 
which shone a diamond rudely set in a heavy gold 
band. 

Milly looked in wonder. “ That is like the ring he 
made me try on my finger last night. Heil must have 
bought it.” 

‘‘ Joost so,” sneered the Jew. “ Yes, I reckon so.” 

“I gave my knife for it, Milly,” said Heil — “the 
dagger-knife that came from my grandfather. You know 
the old man wanted to buy it. I let him have it for the 
ring for you.” 

“We come upon him with that knife in his hand, 
a-stoopin’ over the body,” said the hunter, Tom Heed, 
holding out the silver-mounted Mexican knife, red with 
blood. 

“ The body ! ” repeated Milly, looking wildly at her 
father. “ Where is the old miner % ” 

“ He is dead.” 

“Murdered!” exclaimed the Jew, “and de pody 


MAJ{CH. 15 

robbed. Pelt and vest, loomps of gold and pag of dia- 
monds, all gone ! ” 

‘‘ Murdered ! Oh ! who did it ? ’’ 

“ Who did it ? Dot ish plain. Look dere at de 
ploody hand, and den look here, vill yon ? ” 

He threw open the door of the store before Captain 
Brown could interfere, and Milly caught a glimpse of a 
ghastly, gory figure, stretched out on a bench just within 
the door, the breast and long grizzly beard matted with 
blood. 

“ Wretch ! what do you mean by showing her that ? ” 
cried Captain Brown, catching the dealer by the collar 
and throwing him to the farther extremity of. the porch. 
Then he stooped to raise Milly, who had dropped to her 
knees, but IS’eil was before him. He had Milly in his 
arms, rubbing her forehead with his blood-stained fingers. 

She was not insensible, and soon stood upon her feet, 
clinging to her husband. 

“Take her home. Captain,” said Heil — “take her 
home and be good to her, for God’s sake ! ” 

But Milly kept her hands upon her husband’s arm. 

“ I won’t go, Heil, till I hear from your own mouth 
that you did not kill the old man. I don’t believe you 
did ; I never can believe it ; but I want to hear you deny 
it with your own lips.” 

“ I did not kill the man, Milly,” said ISTeil, looking in 
her face. It was remarkable that, though his tone was 
impressive, he spoke sadly and without animation. There 
was nothing of the indignant accent of denial, such as 
might have been expected. 

“ What right had they to accuse you of such a thing ? ” 
“ They came upon me by the body, with the bloody 


16 


MAJSVH. 


knife, in my hand — my knife there, that I had swapped 
to him, as I told you, for the ring you wanted. I parted 
with him at the road — left him a-fixing his stirrup-strap ; 
and when I had gone about a couple of hundred yards I 
heard a loud cry, and, while I stood listening, the miner’s 
horse come galloping by with his head up and snortin.’ 
I run back as fast as I could, and there lay the old man 
under Gallows Oak, dyin’. He’d been knocked down, 
and then stabbed with the knife he got from me. It was 
stickin’ in his breast, and he motioned me to draw it out. 
I pulled it out, and the blood come in a spurt as thick 
as my wrist. The man gasped and died without saying 
a word. Then Keed and Allan came up and found me 
there.” 

“ Go on,” said Tom Reed. “Why don’t you tell the 
rest? Tell how, when we come upon you, you was 
a-starin’, now at the knife, and now at the woods, and 
a-mutterin’ some kind o’ gibberish, after the fashion of 
your conjurin’ old marm. I’m blest if we didn’t hear 
him mutterin’ about his wife. He didn’t seem to notice 
us, and, when we asked about the murder, he said he 
didn’t do it. Then we asked who did do it, and he shook 
his head, mum as a mole. Afterward he burst out with 
somethin’ that meant he had seen the murderer. ‘ Where 
is he now ? ’ asked my comrade here, and Heil Griffin 
stared around like mad, and said : ^ Gone for good and all, 
he hoped. He trusted never to set eyes upon him again.’ 
But nary time would he tell ns who he was. Just put 
the question to him straightforward-like, Cap’n. Ask 
him if he saw the man that did the killin’.” 

Captain Brown did not speak immediately. Some 
undercurrent of feeling, perhaps pity, perhaps mortifica- 


MAXCH. 


lY 


tion, seemed to stir within him ; for the muscles of his 
mouth and forehead twitched slightly, and his olive cheek 
went a shade paler. He hesitated, and w^hile he did so 
Heil Griffin raised his eyes, and looked him full in the 
face for a minute. It would be hard to decide upon the 
expression or analyze the meaning of that look. What- 
ever it was, it seemed to have some effect upon his stern 
father-in-law. The contracted lines of the Captain’s face 
gave way, and he put the question in almost his ordinary 
tone, but not in the form suggested by Tom Reed. 

“Did you see any person in the act of committing 
this murder ? ” 

“ Not in the act^ Cap’n,” interposed Reed. “ The 
act w^as already committed. He give us to understand 
that there was a man stoopin’ over the body as he run 
up, and the man was robbin’ the body. Says he made 
off with the plunder, he thinlcsP 

“ He tinks ! ” exclaimed Cheap Jacob. “ Where pees 
his eyes? Dat ish one likely shtory ! Yell, who was de 
murderer ? ” 

“ That’s what w^e want to know,” sounded the stento- 
rian voice of Dick Allan, speaking for the first time. 
“Who is the murderer? Tell us that^ Neil Griffin.” 

“ Yes, tell us that,” echoed a dozen voices, and the 
circle of stem, excited faces began to narrow around 
Neil. “ Tell us who did the murder.” 

He did not reply, but kept his eyes fixed upon his 
hands, as though the stain of blood upon them fascinated 
his gaze. 

“ He said it was somebody he knew,” cried Allan. 
“We asked him, and he threw up his arms and said : ‘ O 
Lord ! yes. Who would have thought it ! ’” 


18 


MAJfCH. 


‘‘ It was one of his redskin friends, may be,” sneered 
another, in allusion to the Griffins’ suspected complicity 
with the Indian marauders — the crime for which hTeil’s 
father had been hanged on the Cross Eoads Oak. 

‘‘ May be it was Gabe,” observed another, “ his big 
bud Gabe. A chip of the same block.” 

“ Gabe’s down with the fever, you know.” 

‘‘ Pshaw ! old Hagar could cure that quick enough with 
her witch-yarbs, if there was any devil’s work to be done.” 

‘‘ Bosh ! ” cried Allan’s clarion voice, as he threw out 
one brawny leg, and swept around his arm impatiently. 
“This is all child’s play. That fellow’s story carries the 
lie on its face. If he knew the murderer, he’d speak out 
soon enough to save his own neck from the noose. We’ll 
help him to a knowledge of the murderer. That ring 
and them bloody hands and knife does the business, let 
alone lots of other suspicious things. 3£en^ there stands 
the fellow that hilled the old man ! ” And he leveled 
his great forefinger at Neil Griffin’s face. 

“ Yes / there he stands. We know that ! ” responded 
a chorus of voices. 

“ Neil, do you hear that ! ” cried Milly, turning to her 
husband. “ Have you lost your senses ? Don’t you see 
your life is in danger % Why do you not tell them the 
name of the man you saw ? ” 

He looked down tenderly at her, but said nothing. 

“ Won’t you tell who it was, Neil ? ” 

“No, Milly,” he whispered, grasping tightly the 
hands that clutched him so vehemently. 

“ Father, speak to him. He can’t be in his right 
mind. Tell him to speak out, and clear himself of this 
black deed.” 




10 


He will do it sooner for you than any one else, 
Milly. It is his duty to think of you. If he thinks it 
best for you that he should tell the name of the man 
who did the murder, he ought to tell it at once.’’ 

“ Best for me ! ” cried Milly. ‘‘ Of course it is best 
for me and for him that he should clear himself at once. 
Neil, speak out, and tell who it was that did the murder. 
Won’t you for my sake — for my sake, Neil?” 

“ For your sake, Milly, I would die,” he said low, hold- 
ing her hands tightly in his, and looking at her with pas- 
sionate fire burning up through the troubled depths of 
his eyes — “ for your sake, I would die.” 

Then, as if forgetting the presence of others, he went 
on in that impassioned undertone : 

“ Most like, it would be best for you if I did die. 
I’ve spoilt your life, my girl, well as I love you. I see 
that now. I’ve made you marry where you’ll always be 
ashamed. I was not good enough for you, and my peo- 
ple are not fit for you to call kin. You’ve had to give 
up your friends, and well-nigh your father, for me. I 
know you care more for your father than you do for me. 
I don’t wonder at it either. I know he could do a better 
part by you than I can. He’d have made a lady of you 
if you hadn’t married me: as you said last night.” 

“Neil, are you thinking of those wicked things I said 
last night ? I never would have said them but for the 
sight of all those jewels, and the man’s talk about high 
life and grand people. I didn’t mean it ; I don’t want to 
be a lady. You surely are not letting what I said work 
on your mind, and make you give yourself up to be sus- 
pected of this murder ? ” 

“That’s not all; that’s not all,” he said hurriedly. 


20 


MAJfCH. 


“ But I can’t say any more. Go home, my girl — ^go 
home now. I’ll see you again.” 

The poor young wife had sustained herself bravely so 
far, as became a border girl ; but now she was sobbing 
hysterically. The thought that her unkind words the 
night before, the promptings of her girlish vanity, had 
rankled in her husband’s mind, and perhaps lay at the 
bottom of all this trouble, overpowered her. She wept 
in Neil’s arms, like the child she was. He kissed her 
sadly enough, and comforted her by the assurance that 
he would soon see her again, and relinquished her to her 
father, who led her away from the scene of confusion. 

Her going away was the signal for the repressed ex- 
citement to break forth. Dick Allan, the stalwart bully 
of Bear’s Bend, came to the front, and, planting himself 
firmly, declared they must proceed to business. 

“That chat about your knowing the murderer and 
won’t tell who he be is a thin tale, my chap. We can’t 
swallow it, nohow. It was jest you as knocked the old 
man over, and then hid the plunder — buried it belike — 
and come back to see if you had made sure work of your 
victim. And that’s when we found you and scared you 
half out of your wits.” 

“ Joost make a clean breast of it, boy, and tell us 
where you hid the money, and may be it’ll go lighter mit 
you,” coaxed the Jew. 

“ I’ll tell nothing more than I have told,” said Neil, 
“ let you do what you will.” 

“ And do you know what we’ll do, my fine chap ? 
We’ll hang you on Gallows Oak, as sure as you stand 
there.” 

“ Hang away, then,” said the young man doggedly. 


MAJYCH. 


21 


“You hanged my father there, declarin’ he was innocent 
with his last breath. You’ve persecuted us like hounds 
on the track of a sick deer ; you’ve abused my mother for 
a witch ; you’ve scared my sister into an idiot ; you’ve 
dogged my brother into a coward ; and you’d ’ave made 
a villain of me, but for one thing — that’s Milly; and 
you’ll make her turn against me and hate me if you can. 
Hang away ; I don’t care for life.” 

With that he drew his bearskin cap down over liis 
forehead, folded his arms, and spoke no more through 
all the noisy discussion that followed. At its conclusion 
he was marched out to the block-house as the safest and 
most suitable lock-up, and there placed in confinement. 

The block-house, which served the settlers for a jail 
as well as a fort, was situated on the opposite side of the 
bayou, a mile or two below Bear’s Bend, and half a mile 
out from the river. It had been built before Bear’s Bend 
was cleared, and was meant as a protection from the In- 
dians and the beginning of a village. The site had been 
chosen with an eye to health as well as to defense, being 
a high hill, crowned with magnificent live-oaks, and sup- 
plied with an unfailing spring of cold water. 

Circumstances had induced the transfer of the future 
village to Bear’s Bend, and the block-house and a few 
dismantled cabins were all that was left at the Cross 
Koads, so called because two roads, coming respectively 
from the south and east, and cut by trains of emigrant 
wagons, intersected each other at this place. 

The block-house, in which the settlers had formerly 
sheltered themselves in a time of Indian hostilities, was 
a substantial building of heavy hewn logs, closely joined, 
and pierced at intervals with port-holes for guns in case 


22 


MAXCH. 


of attack. It was mounted upon cypress posts, fifteen 
feet high, and had one small door, which was reached by 
a ladder. This door was now fastened by a padlock and 
chain, and in the great, bare room within sat hTeil, his 
face buried in his hands, left alone at last with his own 
thoughts. Two of the men of Bear’s Bend mounted 
guard over the prisoner by sitting on the bottom round 
of the ladder playing “ seven-up,” the stake being drinks 
from a black fiask, furnished by their friends by way of 
compensation for their service as jailers. They had been 
left to their game but a short time, however, for the whole 
male population of the village and neighborhood had 
assisted in escorting the prisoner to the block-house, and, 
having exhausted every inducement of persuasion and 
threats to make him reveal where he had hidden the 
jewels and money, had remained all the forenoon search- 
ing everywhere for them. But all in vain. No sign of 
the treasure had been discovered, and the prisoner per- 
sisted in declaring that he did not know what had become 
of it. They had therefore returned to the village to at- 
tend to the burial of the dead man. 

Later in the afternoon, the remains of the gold-digger 
having been consigned to the grave, the settlers met at 
the “store” to sit in council upon Neil Griffin. Their 
deliberations, however, referred rather to the time than 
the manner of his punishment. His fate was already 
fixed. 

These border men were in the habit of taking the law 
into their own hands, and when they decided against an 
offender his punishment followed with terrible swiftness 
and certainty. They were peculiar in their decisions. 
They looked with a lenient eye upon all fair fights and 


MAjrcit. 


“ scrimmages,” and even upon cases where a blood j ven- 
geance was taken for a wrong done to one’s self or one’s 
relations and friends. On the other hand, stealing a 
horse was a heinous offense ; complicity with hostile In- 
dians was a crime that called for a h’ist to the nighest 
limb,” as they phrased it ; and a case like, the one before 
them, of cold-blooded murder for money, not only shocked 
their feelings of humanity, but outraged their sense of 
manly courage — a sneaking, cowardly crime, and therefore 
unpardonable. 

Neil Griffin’s fate was settled from the first. Not 
only were the circumstances of the murder against him, 
but he had to withstand the fixed prejudice of the settlers. 
His father’s crime and its dreadful expiation had thrown 
the shadow of suspicion over the two sons. Neil’s refusal 
to say who the murderer was, after the declaration that 
he had seen him (which had apparently escaped him 
involuntarily at that first moment of discovery), together 
with his avowed ignorance concerning the money that 
had been robbed from the miner, further exasperated 
these men who held his life in their hands. 

They owed him another grudge — that of having mar- 
ried pretty Milly Brown. In view of the fact that the 
Captain had bitterly condemned this marriage, his con- 
duct in regard to the murderer excited no little surprise. 
The men at Bear’s Bend had been wont to follow his 
leadership, but in this instance his action was so luke- 
warm as to call for comment. He seemed actually to 
lean to the side of mercy for the prisoner, judging from 
the few remarks that could be elicited from him. It was 
after one of these dubious utterances that Dick Allan 
jumped to his feet, and discharging a quid of tobacco 


24 MdJ^Qm 

from his mouth, demanded to know just how the Oapfeln 
stood. 

“ Out with it, Cap. Give us your ijees straight as a 
bullet to a buck’s head. That’s your way of old. I know 
sarcumstances alters cases, and ye’re father-in-law to this 
fellow, more’s- the pity, but you knows what jestice is, 
and you’ve got the grit to go agin sarcumstances. So 
let’s hear your say so in this here matter. The boys are 
a-listenin’ for it.” 

All eyes were turned to Captain Brown. His man- 
ner was not quite so calm as usual. His long, sinewy, 
brown hand went up to his head and brushed back a 
lock of hair that hid a scar on his temple. The bluish 
mark was very noticeable on the paleness of his skin. 

“Men,” he. began, “this business looks bad for Grif- 
fin. The circumstances are dead against him.” 

“ That’s so, ye’re right there,” assented several voices. 

“ But I have heard of cases where appearances were as 
bad against a man, and yet he was innocent.” 

Ho response to this for half a minute ; then Dick 
Allan,, rolling his quid in his cheek, said dryly : 

“ Well, you’ve heard of more’n I have.” 

Captain Brown went on : “ Under the circumstances 
I think the best and safest course would be to make him 
leave the settlement at once, under oath never to come 
back to it again. If he breaks this oath, he is to suffer the 
penalty of hanging. In this way we get rid of him with- 
out having his blood, w^hich may he innocent blood, upon 
our hands.” 

Saying this, the Captain inclined his head with the 
commanding air peculiar to him, and went out of the 
room. 


MAJYCH. 


25 


Dick Allan stared after him in amazement, and fell 
to chewing his fresh quid vehemently. 

“Well, if any man ’ad told me Cap’n Brown would 
have said sich as that. I’d ’a give him the lie direct, blast 
me if I wouldn’t ! The idea of turning a cold-blooded 
murderer loose to dig up his plunder the first night he’s 
free, go back to the States, or somewhar else, and live in 
clover the balance of his life ! The Cap’n’s a good one to 
lead, whether the game be bear or redskin, but never will 
I follow him in this yer thing. If ’twas any other man 
besides Cap’n Brown, I’d say that he was a-winkin’ at 
the robbery and murder in hopes to get a share of the 
money.” 

“ IS'o, no ! ” cried several voices in a breath. 

“ISTo, that’s not Cap’n Brown,” said the old gray- 
haired hunter. “ I’d just as soon believe it of George 
Washington if he war alive. You mustn’t be too brash 
jumpin’ to conclusions. You must ’low a man some nat- 
eral feelin’s. Bemember, the fellow is the husband of 
the Cap’n’s darter, and we all know how little Milly used 
to be the darlin’ of his heart and the apple of his eye. 
Then the Cap’n’s high-toned. You can’t blame him for 
hatin, to have a gallows-bird in his family, or not likin’ 
to be the one to tie the hemp round the gullet of his 
future grandchild’s father. Ain’t that so ? ” 

“ Yes, that’s true,” promptly responded the conclave. 

“Well, let’s have respect for the Captain’s nateral 
feelin’s, and do what we are going to do without troublin’ 
of him.” 

“ All right,” cried Allan with alacrity. “ And, look 
here, let me tack on a word to what you’ve jest said. 
When a thing is to be did, the sooner the better. Our 
2 


26 




boys can’t stay out yonder a-guardin’ the block-house, and 
leavin’ the bears and coons to eat up their pigs and their 
corn-patches. Better go right off, and fix our prisoner so 
he can’t get away, and be done with the job. What say 
you to going to-night — there’s a fine moon, you know — 
about midnight, when the Cap’n and poor Milly’s in bed 
asleep, and won’t mistnist what’s going on ? It will save 
feelin’s.” 

The proposition met with general favor, and it was 
finally agreed upon that they should go at the time sug- 
gested, make one final effort to induce the prisoner (with 
the halter around his neck) to confess the crime and give 
up the money, and then hang him on the same stout limb 
that had swung his father into eternity a few years before. 


CHAPTER II. 

Milly had passed the day at her father’s house. A 
day of wretchedness and anxiety it had been for her, 
although she was far from realizing the worst that might 
happen. She had been so in the habit of relying upon 
her father — of indulging in the belief that he could bend 
any circumstances to his will — that she trusted with child- 
like faith in his power to extricate Heil from his present 
trouble and make things come out right at last. Still 
she was deeply anxious, and her apprehensions rose as 
night drew on and her father did not come to allay her 
fears. She had seen him but once since he brought her 
to his own home that morning. She could not help re- 
marking how pale and haggard he looked — what a fire 




27 


of repressed excitement glowed in his eyes, although his 
manner was so subdued and his words so few. He ate 
not a mouthful of the dinner that his old black attendant 
set before him, but he had brought Milly her food to her 
bedside and insisted upon seeing her taste it, while he 
enjoined upon her rest and quiet. Then he had left her 
instantly, and she had seen him no more that day. 

She sat in the moonlight on the steps of the little 
porch, waiting anxiously for his coming. How often she 
had sat there upon moonlight nights only a few months 
ago, and watched the silken flitting of the great evening 
moths, and strung garlands of white and red ‘^four- 
o’clocks” (‘‘pretty-by-nights,” she called them) upon 
blades of the long river-grass ! She remembered how she 
would decorate her curly head with these, and make be- 
lieve that they were pearls and diamonds, and that she 
was the grand lady of her day-dreams. This was such a 
short time ago, and yet it seemed so long. A gulf seemed 
to lie between then and now. Then she was such a care- 
less, happy child, content with her flowers, her birds, and 
her castle-building ; and now she seemed suddenly to 
have become a care-burdened woman, a woman of flf teen, 
with a husband that might be hanged for a felon. The 
very remembrance of the four-o’clock mock jewels smote 
her with a pang as she felt remorsefully that her craving 
for such things might possibly underlie all her present 
unhappiness. Occupied with such thoughts, and feeling 
every moment more lonely and apprehensive, she watched 
the hours wear on. The great horned owls hooted fear- 
fully in the woods across the river, while in the wil- 
low near at hand the small screech-owl kept up its shud- 
dering cry. Milly was growing more nervous every mo- 


28 


MAKCm 


ment, and when at la^t she heard a footstep approach- 
ing, she hardly dared look up. It did not sound like her 
father’s firm tread either ; it was slower and more uncer- 
tain. But it was he nevertheless, and his daughter threw 
her arms around him with a feeling of deep relief and 
sobbed excitedly upon his breast. He soothed her by a 
few caressing touches on her brow and hair. 

“ Where is Heil ? Haven’t they set him free yet ? ” 
she asked. 

‘^Hot yet.” 

“ When will they be done with him ? I thought — 
I hoped you might bring him with you to-night, father.” 

He stroked her hair for a reply. 

“ Shall I see him to-morrow % Will they let him off 
then?” 

‘‘Milly,” said the father gravely, “you heard the 
evidence against him. It was very strong. Do you 
think they would be apt to set him free so soon, if 
at all?” 

“ But he is innocent.” 

“ They do not believe it.” 

“Father, what do you mean? Do you think they 
will hang him ? ” 

“Ho, Milly ; they shall not do that. But they will 
never set him free. He must escape. I will help him 
to get away. They have him shut in the block-house ; I 
will manage to-morrow night that he shall make his 
escape. I will furnish him with money, and my horse 
Mort, the fastest in this country, shall be tied in the 
thicket close by. Before daybreak he must have left 
the settlement far behind, never to show his face here 
again,” 


And i, fatiier,^’ said Milly timidly ; “ koW can 1 go 
with him ? ” 

“ You must not go at all, Milly. You must stay with 
me.” 

“ But when can I join him ? ” 

“ I don’t know. You must not think of that.” 

“ But, father, Neil is my husband.” 

“ Milly,” said her father, taking her on his knee and 
drawing her head to his shoulder, ‘‘he was never a match 
for you. It was a miserable piece of business, your mar- 
rying him. But I blame myself for it more than I do 
you — poor, neglected, motherless child that you were. 
He is not the husband for you, my daughter — not the 
husband for you. Forget him, Milly.” 

“ Father, I can’t do that ; he is my husband, and — I 
love him.” 

“You will outgrow this childish love. You are a 
mere child, Milly — not grown in stature even. You will 
be ashamed of this love when you are a matured, beauti- 
ful, educated woman.” 

“la beautiful, educated woman! How can that 
be?” 

“It shall be. You have beauty and talent now, un- 
developed, like the butterfly in its chrysalis. We will 
go away from here. I will fulfill my duty to you yet, 
Milly. You shall see the world— the grand, beautiful, 
gay, busy world. You shall learn the rare things there 
are in books, in music, in painting; you shall wear 
jewels — ” 

“No, never!” cried Milly, shuddering. “Not jew- 
els ; they would burn me after what has passed to-day.” 

“ You must forget what has passed to-day. You must 


30 MAJ^CIT. 

enter on a new life. Yes, you shall wear jewels, and have 
books and pictures.” 

‘‘ Such things cost money, do they not ? ” said Milly, 
beguiled for a moment out of her sorrow, as a child 
might be. “ And we have no money.” 

“We shall have money,” he whispered, laying his 
cheek to hers. Milly started, to feel how hot it was. 
Looking up with a sudden impulse, she caught sight of 
his face in the moonlight, and it seemed to her to be 
transformed in some way — to have a look on it that made 
her shrink. Her nervousness was returning. She shiv- 
ered with an undefinable dread. Her father was about 
to speak again, when she stopped him. 

“Hush! listen!” 

The sound of quick and heavy hoof-strokes smote the 
still night-air. They came nearer. A tall, gaunt-limbed, 
wild-maned horse burst through the shrubbery and halted 
suddenly before them. A woman, also tall, and gaunt, 
and wild-looking, with streaming gray hair, leaped from 
his back to the ground, and confronted the father and 
daughter. * 

“Wretches!” she cried, “you sit here and chat in 
safety, while my son— the poor boy you’ve ruined— is at 
the mercy of a pack of human wolves. And you the 
cause of it — you ! ” 

“ What do you mean, woman ? ” exclaimed Captain 
Brown, rising to his feet. “How am I or my daughter 
the cause of your son’s danger ? ” 

“ It was his marrying your baby-faced chit, it was his 
trying to gain your good will, that drove him to do this. 
It was the money that tempted him ; it was to get money 
to please her and you that made him kill the man.” 


MAKCR, 31 

“ He did not kill the man,” said Milly. “ He is inno- 
cent. My father believes him to be innocent.” 

“ Then why does he not say so to theiri f Why is he 
not yonder putting down their devilish work? He is 
their leader ; they will listen to him. Why does he not 
save my son’s life ? Why does he let him be hanged 
without a trial, when there is judge and jury to be had at 
Fairtown?” 

‘‘ Save him I will at the proper time,” said the Cap- 
tain, his voice broken by agitation. ‘‘There is no im- 
mediate danger.” 

“ Ho immediate danger ! ” screamed the woman. “ Be 
you only pretendin’, or don’t ^mu know what’s goin’ on ? 
Ho danger, when, this minute, they’ve got him under 
Gallows Oak with a rope round his neck ! ” 

“ Great God ! is this so ? ” 

“So? Didn’t I see ’em, the devils, draggin’ him 
about with the rope round his neck, greedy as wolves for 
his blood, and hoi din’ back only in hopes to cheat or 
choke him into tollin’ where the cussed money’s hid ? At 
this moment he may be swinging from Gallows Tree. 
My son ! my pretty boy ! Cursed be the hour he ever 
saw your faces ! ” 

“ Hush, woman ! ” cried the Captain harshly. “ Would 
you kill the girl ? ” 

He bent down over Milly, who had sunk to the floor, 
and cowered there, with her face hid in her trembling 
arms. 

“ Ho ; she’s not killed,” said the woman, striding to 
her side. “ And it’s no time to drop down in a faint. 
Girl, get up, and bestir yourself, if you care one jot for 
the husband that would give his heart’s blood for you. 


32 


MAKCH. 


Come with me ; come, both .of you, and save my son. 
Beg for his life, girl. I can’t beg ; curses come to my 
mouth instead. You are young and fair ; they will listen 
to you when they’d only scoff at old Hagar the witch. 
Here, mount with me ! Your father will get his horse 
and follow. We’ve no time to wait for tlie skiff. My 
mare is tall enough to ford the bayou. You needn’t be 
scared at the water, I will hold you in my arms.” 

Milly had risen to her feet, ready, eager, nerved to 
attempt anything that might benefit Heil. The fierce 
old Hagar lifted her to a seat behind her, and, grasping 
her with her long, sinewy arm, shouted to her horse. In 
a moment they were fording the bayou ; the cool, swift 
water rashed all around Milly, but the strong arm held 
her close. 

The bank was gained ; the deep shadows of the wood, 
where the owls flew shrieking with fright from the thun- 
dering hoofs of the horses — two horses, for Milly now 
became conscious that her father rode beside her. She 
saw his face for an instant, as a javelin of moonlight, 
piercing the black branches above, smote its ghastly pal- 
lor. He rode bareheaded, the hair bristling on his fore- 
head, his face, his body rigid as that of a frozen corpse, 
his eyes staring straight forward. 

Hot a word was spoken. There was no sound during 
that fearful ride but the shout of the woman, urging on 
her flying horse — a wild, savage cry that startled the 
echoes of the mighty wood. 

On, on, they sweep. They leave the river-swamp 
behind. The open country stretches before them. Gal- 
lows Hill rises to sight ; the block-house looms up on its 
summit. Its black walls are dashed with the red glare 


MAJVCH. 


33 


of torches. Torches flash beneath the gloom of the great 
tree known as Gallows Oak. In their lurid glow dusky 
shadows are seen moving to and fro — the shadows of 
men, that look in the red glare and dark background like 
the shapes of fiends seen in some dream of hell. 

On, on, nearer and nearer press those who ride as for 
life. They can see the wild faces of the torch-bearers. 
They can hear a confused clash of voices, and now a sharp 
tone of command. The foot of the hill is gained, the 
horses are straining up its steep side, when a shout from 
a dozen throats, blent with one gurgling cry of mortal 
agony, rings out on the night, and Milly sees a man’s 
form shoot up into sight from the oak’s shadow, swing 
clear of the ground, and hang there, on the swaying 
limb, with the torch-glare full upon it ; a sight to freeze 
the blood in woman’s veins — a struggling human form, 
writhing, gasping, dying in the midst of life and health, 
at the hands of his fellow men. 

Milly knew no more. She did not see her father’s 
horse dash by her with flying bound, as the spur was 
driven in its bleeding side. She did not hear her father’s 
voice shake the echoes with its stern cry of “ Hold ! hold ! 
He is innocent ! By the Lord, he is innocent ! ” 

He dashed through the astonished group, with his 
knife gleaming in his hand ; reached the swinging form ; 
severed the rope with one mighty stroke, and, leaping 
from his horse, bent eagerly over the still body and felt 
for the pulse. 

The purple face, the staring eyes, the protruding 
tongue, how ghastly they looked in the torchlight ! 

“ Too late ! My God, too late ! ” he exclaime'.. 
“ Bloodthirsty fiends ! how dare you thus take the law 


34 


MAJfCH, 


in your own hands ? How dare you take the life of your 
fellow man ? Innocent blood be upon you for ever ! ” 
He uttered these words with terrible emphasis^ver the 
dead body, and staggered back in the shadow. 

The silence of death fell upon the scene ; but it was 
soon broken by a fearful sound — the raving curses of a 
woman — of a mother, with wild, gray hair, and blazing 
eyes, and bony arm uplifted, as she stood over the body 
of her son, and called down curses upon the heads of 
those who had destroyed him, who had destroyed both 
husband and son — both hanged on the fatal limb that yet 
shook above her. 

They listened to her tremblingly. Those stout-hearted 
men, who had faced death so often, trembled with super- 
stitious terror under the awful curses that rolled from the 
fierce woman’s lips. 

Hot one dared lay hands upon the body. She stood 
over it like a bear over her dead cub, the fire of a des- 
perate hate glaring in her eyes. They slunk away, al- 
most in silence. Some busied themselves in assisting 
Captain Brown, who knelt upon the ground the picture 
of despair, for Milly Ins darling lay insensible in his 
arms, her frame shuddering in convulsions. 

There was no work done at Bear’s Bend next day. 
The smith’s forge was silent, the hunter’s hounds slept 
idle in the sun, and the “varmints” feasted undisturbed 
upon the corn-fields. Even Cheap Jacob shut up his shop 
out of respect to the feeling of gloom and solemnity that 
hung over the little village. Two men had ventured out 
to Gallows Hill in the afternoon, and cautiously ap- 
proached the scene of the last night’s tragedy. It wore 
its usual quiet aspect — nothing to recall the wild events 


MAKCH. 


35 


of a few hours previous, save the blackened remnants of 
the pine-torches that had illuminated the scene. 

Hearing a low moan proceed from the undergrowth 
not far off, they plucked up courage after a while to ap- 
proach the place from whence the sound issued, and found 
a new-made grave, and seated upon it Harriet, the half- 
idiot sister of Heil Griffin. She was swaying her body 
back and forth with low, monotonous moans. When she 
heard the crackling of footsteps on the dry leaves, she 
looked up with a wild glance, saw the two men approach- 
ing, and bounded off like a startled deer. 

“ God be with us ! ” ejaculated one of the men, “ if 
the old woman, and Gabe, and the gal ain’t been and 
buried the body by themselves ! Comrade, I’ll never set 
foot on this yer hill ag’in as long as life’s in my body — no, 
not to shoot the fattest deer that ever drunk at Block- 
house Spring.” 

Various were the conjectures that day as to what 
Captain Brown had meant by that emphatic proclamation 
of Heil Griffin’s innocence. It was the general impres- 
sion that it was intended merely to put an instant stop 
to the proceedings ; and in trying, as the Captain did, to 
save the young man’s life, it was believed that he was 
actuated by his love for Milly and his desire to spare her 
pain. If the act required apology, his daughter’s illness 
and danger procured him abundant forgiveness and sym- 
pathy. 

There was not a heart in the village that did not 
bleed for little Milly. The women would have hastened 
to her bedside with herbs and roots enough to fill her 
chamber, had not her pale, dignified father kept them at 
bay. She was better, but she must see no one. “ She 


36 


MAXCH. 


must have no excitement,” he said, politely but firmly. 
Since, in addition to his many other qualifications, he had 
the reputation of being something of a physician, his right 
to exclude visitors was not questioned, and Milly was left 
to his care and that of the old black attendant. 

Two old women who had sat up later than usual dis- 
cussing the exciting events of the day over their knitting, 
reported that when they retired, about ten o’clock, they 
saw a light burning in Captain Brown’s house, which 
was somewhat isolated from the other buildings, being 
situated farther down the bayou and quite near the wa- 
ter’s edge. One of these remarked to the other : 

“ The Captain is sitting up with poor Milly to-night. 
He’d better have let us seen her, and given her some 
black-root tea. Hothing like black-root tea for fits. This 
trouble will make it go hard with her.” 

But the villagers slept soundly that night — so soundly 
that they did not hear the roar and crackle of fire. They 
did not wake when the red, wreathing blaze mounted 
higher and higher and wrapped Captain Brown’s dwell- 
ing in a sheet of flame. ISTot until the roof fell with a 
crash that set the village dogs to baying did it rouse them 
from their slumbers, and bring them out to see what was 
the matter. Then, with loaded guns— for their first 
thought was Indians— they ran to the spot. The house 
was a mass of fire; no human being was to be seen 
around the ruins. They called ; they shouted the names 
of Captain Brown and Milly ; but only the echoes gave 
response. Could it be Indians? Ho ; there was no print 
of a moccasin to be discovered ; and the Captain’s horse 
stood in his stable, snorting in furious fright at the roar- 
ing flames. Had the fire been the work of Indians, they 


MAJ^CH, 


37 


would have taken the horse. What, then, had become 
of Captain Brown, Milly, and the old black woman? 
Could they have been burned to death in the blazing 
house ? The settlers looked at each other in dumb hor- 
ror. 

“ I’m afeared so,” said one at last. “ Milly was sick, 
you know, and like as not out of her head ; and the Cap’n 
and the old woman war tired out a-waitin’ on her, and 
had dropped to sleep likely, and the candle got upset, and 
the bed and room took fire, and pretty nigh stified ’em 
before they woke. Smoke blinded and choked ’em so 
they couldn’t unfasten the door, or find it, maybe. I’ve 
known the like to happen.” 

This was accepted as the most reasonable solution of 
the matter ; and when the fire, which was long in burn- 
ing because of the heavy logs of which the house was 
built, had at last burned down, the villagers proceeded 
sadly to search among the embers for the remains of the 
unfortunate family. A few bones and a small mass of 
charred and blackened flesh was all that could be dis- 
covered. These were buried near the spot, amid the 
profound sorrow and gloom of the little community. 
The grave had thus seemed to set its seal of silence upon 
these as well as upon IN’eil Griffin, and the family, who 
from circumstances, as well as from their own marked in- 
dividuality, might have set their stamp upon the young 
civilization just unfolding in that portion of the Western 
world, had thus disappeared from the eyes of all. 


MAKCH, 


B8 


CHAPTER III. 

A TWILIGHT at once somber and magnificent : in the 
west, a cloud, black with thunder and tempest, shaped 
like an ill-omened bird, with huge wings gradually broad- 
ening and darkening along the horizon ; overhead, an ex- 
panse of silver-blue sky fiecked with fleecy clouds that 
yet hold the purple and amber of sunset; in the east, 
a moon rising full-orbed and bright above the line of 
woods, and lighting luridly the darkness opposite. 

The three occupants of the substantial close carriage 
look upon the scene with different emotions. The gen- 
tleman beside the lady on the back seat is thinking that 
the cloud may contain sharp lightning, which may startle 
his new horses and occasion a fright to his delicate, city- 
bred young bride. The lady leans out and looks toward 
the moonrise, the light shining on her lovely features ; 
then, she glances at the mass of rising cloud, soon to 
eclipse this brightness, and murmurs : 

“It is like fate — evil fate, that overtakes one even 
when life seems brightest.” 

She sighs softly as she speaks, and her eyes take on 
a dreamy look. The man who sits opposite, and who 
watches her rather than the scene, wonders at the cloud 
of sadness that comes over her face. He has noticed 
that it has thus come and passed many times during the 
day, and that her eyes have worn the troubled look of a 
sleep-walker on the point of awaking. But no one else 
of the gay dinner company has noticed it — not even her 
husband. She has made an effort to fulfill public expec- 
tation, raised to its utmost in respect to the bride of the 


MAJ^CH. 


39 


mayor of their town and their State senator in prospec- 
tive. She has dispensed her smiles lavishly, played, 
sung, and conversed with an affability that has charmed 
her husband’s friends and constituents ; but all the while 
an undefinable shadow has seemed to hang over her. 
She has seemed to move as one in a dream — to wonder 
at herself, and to shudder as she felt a stirring of strange 
memories, bewildering her brain. So she has pleaded 
fatigue, and induced her attentive husband to take her 
away before the beginning of the dance that is to close 
the day’s festivities, in spite of the importunities of host 
and hostess. Colonel Archer has chosen to accompany 
them also, notwithstanding Mr. Avery’s offer to send the 
carriage back for him. Colonel Archer is such excellent 
company, he dances so well, and is altogether so agree- 
able, that many bright eyes look disappointed as he 
passes out in company witli the A very s, with the lady’s 
light shawl across his arm. He is known to be staying 
at Mr. Avery’s house on a visit, and it is rumored that 
he is a wealthy land speculator, with thoughts of mak- 
ing the thrifty and growing town of Alluvia his future 
home. 

Mr. Avery, with all his watchful fondness for his 
bride, has not noticed the strange fits of abstraction that 
have come over her to-day. He is not wont to be ob- 
servant of small or hidden things, and is himself so frank 
and open that he rarely looks beyond the surface. Hot 
so his new friend. Colonel Archer; so it was he who 
now said to Mrs. Avery : 

“ You speak earnestly for one so young and fortunate, 
madam. What can you know about evil fate ? ” 

It was doubtful if she heard him, for her eyes still 


40 


MAKCE. 


kept that vacant, fascinated gaze at the cloudy distance. 
At any rate, before she replied, a tongue of flame leaped 
from the cloud and a growl of thunder followed. Mr. 
Avery glanced apprehensively at his wife ; then he spoke 
to the driver on the box : 

“ Drive faster, Patrick ; I am afraid the storm will 
overtake us. See here — isn’t that a nearer way ? ” point- 
ing to an old and unused road that led straight over a 
high hill a few yards distant, while the main track ran 
off in what seemed a needlessly wide and out-of-the-way 
curve. The driver stopped and hesitated. 

“ Yes, sir, it’s some nearer,” he said at last; “ but — ” 

“ Take it, then, and drive on. It was a good road 
when I traveled it not long since.” 

The man obeyed, but with evident reluctance. As 
they ascended the hill, a building loomed up to sight 
among the trees and undergrowth — a dark, weather- 
stained building, unshapely and windowless, save for the 
few loop-holes pierced in its sides. It was set upon 
huge log posts, that wej-e thickly wound with wild vines. 
Its proportions were dwarfed by an enormous live-oak 
that rose near its wide-spreading limbs hung with the 
long, gray moss. 

“Look, Melicent ! ” said Mr. Avery. “You com- 
plained that our new State had no monuments — no houses 
with histories. Here is a building that has a history dark 
enough for romance. The ground about it has drunk 
human blood in other days, both civilized and savage. It 
has had its share of murder and mystery, too. Looks a 
flt place for ghosts, does it not ? ” 

There was no response. He turned his head and 
looked at his wife. He was at once filled with concern 


MAJSrCH, 


41 


at sight of her singular appearance. Her face was marble 
in the moonlight ; her eyes were directed toward the old 
building with a fixed, frightened stare — her lips apart. 

“ Melicent, what is the matter ? Are you ill ? ” 

Still no answer. They were now opposite the block- 
house, nearly within the shadow of the live-oak tree. The 
horses suddenly stopped, snorted, and began to prance. 
The driver declared, with an oath, that it was “ jist what 
he ixpected.” But Mr. Avery did not hear him ; he was 
engrossed by the strange appearance of his wife. He 
called her again — tenderly, anxiously — and laid his hand 
on her arm, escaping white and bare, except for the brace- 
let that bound it, from her gossamer shawl. She started 
at length, like one just aroused from nightmare, drew in 
her breath with a frightened, sobbing sound, and buried 
her face in her hands. He looked at her in wondering 
distress. He saw her frame quiver, as if inwardly con- 
vulsed by emotion. 

“ Melicent, my darling ! ” he exclaimed, “ what is it ? 
You distress me beyond measure.’’ 

She lifted her face. 

Pardon me,” she said, in a low voice, full of sup- 
pressed agitation. “ I — I have had a singular vision. I 
think I am not well. I thought I saw— a man hanging 
to that limb of the live-oak ; and— oh ! so many more 
terrible things besides ! And they were so real ! Aleck, 
they seemed like remembrances of what I had seen.” 

“ My dear Melicent, you are feverish. We must hast- 
en home. Patrick, why do you not drive on ? What is 
the matter with the horses ? ” 

“ Shure, and they don’t like ghosts, sir, any more than 
mesilf. They see what the madam saw jist now — Neil 


42 


MAJfCH. 


Griffin hanging to yon limb. That’s what comes o’ going 
by haunted places.” 

‘‘Neil Griffin ? Neil — ” uttered Melicent. 

She shuddered and drew herself away from her hus- 
band’s arms. Her eyes turned without again, fixed in 
that trance-like stare, as though some image, invisible to 
the others, rose before her. 

“ Hush, you superstitious humbug, and give the horses 
the lash ! Don’t you see the rain is beginning to fall ? ” 
cried Mr. Avery. 

A sharp peal of thunder seemed to break the spell. 
The horses bounded forward ; Melicent withdrew her 
eyes, with a deep, shuddering breath, and sat quite silent 
and composed, with her husband’s arm around her and 
her head resting lightly against his shoulder. At length 
she said : 

“What man was it he spoke of as being hanged on 
that tree ? Tell me all about it.” 

“ Not now,” replied her husband ; “ you are too much 
agitated.” 

“ I am quite composed, and I should like to hear all 
about it. It would interest me.” 

“ There was a man hanged there once, in the first set- 
tling of this place — eight or ten years ago, I believe — for 
the murder of a miner, who had a large amount of money. 
The murder was committed under that very tree.” 

“There were two men hanged on that tree— father 
and son,” said Colonel Archer’s deep voice. “It is 
nearly nine years since the last, Neil Griffin, was swung 
to the very limb Mrs. Avery pointed out. Doubtless, 
madam,” he said, turning to her with a short, dry laugh, 
“ it was his ghost you saw. It is supposed to haunt this 


MAMH, 43 

place and guard the treasure he is said to have buried 
here.” 

Me own feyther saw the ghost, standing by its own 
grave one night — shure and he did ! ” broke out Patrick, 
unable to contain himself longer — “ standing by the very 
grave his mither, the old witch-woman Hagar, made for 
him in the bush yonder.” 

“ Is he buried here ? ” asked Mrs. Avery. 

“ It is supposed that he is. There is a grave in the 
thicket yonder, made by his mother and brother, and he 
is suj^osed to lie in it.” 

“ Supposed ? ” echoed Mr. Avery ; “ it is known that 
he is buried there.” 

“ If he was buried at all — if he was hanged at all — ” 

“ He was hanged, of course ; I have heard all about it 
frequently.” 

‘‘ He was cut down by his wife’s father, and left with 
the crazy beldame his mother. Where is the proof of his 
death ? ” 

“ Certainly, he was dead. He has never turned up in 
all these years, and there is his grave.” 

“ A grave is no sign of a body. But we will leave the 
subject; it affects Mrs. Avery’s nerves. Mrs. Avery, 
you looked as pale as a specter yourself just now, in that 
flash of lightning. See, madam, the cloud is about to en- 
gulf the moon — the dark fate to overtake the proud life, 
before it has reached the zenith of its glory, to recall your 
comparison of a moment ago.” 

She did not reply. She was thinking. Was it omi- 
nous? Was her feeling about it prophetic? Only yes- 
terday her life had seemed so entirely bright ! What 
was this strange, weird shadow that had crept over it ? 


44 


MAJ^CS, 


The brief summer storm had spent its fury when they 
reached the door of Mr. Avery’s dwelling. The clouds 
were parting and flying olf in the fresh wind, revealing 
the serene heaven with its moon and stars. Mr. Avery 
lifted his wife across the damp pavement, and, setting 
her down upon the steps of the porch, enjoined upon her 
to retire at once, while he took a look at the stable and 
smoked a cigar. 

Up stairs she went, but not to bed. Exchanging her 
silk dinner-dress for a white wrapper, she went to her 
favorite room, the library, and sat down in the open win- 
dow, that the night-wind might cool her heated brain, 
and give her chance for quiet, coherent thought. 

But she could not think at all — she could only re- 
member. She was like one suddenly raised from the 
dead, to whom the life he has lived in the past comes up 
in wave after wave of recollection, threatening to drown 
reason in the flood of memories. But Melicent’s present 
experience was more bewildering than this, because more 
complicated. She had the feeling of double identity. 
She remembered herself as Melicent Weir, a girl accus- 
tomed to refined associations and elegant surroundings 
during all her life, the earlier recollections of which, 
however, had been clouded and partially obliterated by a 
dangerous brain-fever that had necessitated her leaving 
school and retiring to a country retreat to recover her 
health. Her first distinct remembrance was of this place, 
and of an old-fashioned bedroom with chintz curtains and 
mahogany furniture — ^herself seated by the great window 
in a deep-cushioned invalid’s chair ; her father stately and 
handsomely dressed in black on one side, holding her 
hands ; on the other, a benignant old lady, whose dress 


MAJ^CH. 


45 


and face seemed to belong to some courtly portrait of a 
past age. Glancing at an oval mirror opposite, she saw 
and wondered at herself — a slim, pale-faced child, with 
hair cropped close and turning in short rings over her 
head. She made an effort to recall some circumstance 
previous to the present, but her mind seemed in a haze, 
and her recollections were dim and confused until her 
father helped out her impaired memory by telling her 
how ill she had been — ^how she had been obliged to give 
up school for several months, and been nursed by her 
aunt in her home among the mountains. Now, how- 
ever, she must get w'ell rapidly, and return to her studies. 
He would take her this time to a convent school, as the 
sisters would be careful of her health. She remembered 
how patiently her father had answered her bewildered 
questions and corrected her vague impressions, which he 
had gravely smiled at, telling her they were only the 
di*eams of her delirium, and not, as she half fancied, rec- 
ollections of what had actually occurred. Then came 
the return to her city home ; the life at the convent for 
four monotonous but happy years, varied by vacations and 
glimpses into city life ; the completion of her course of 
study at the convent ; her entrance into society, where 
she speedily became the belle of her circle, admired and 
followed, with many to worship the subtile charm about 
her that was more attractive than her beauty. Finally 
came a suitor favored by her father before his manly yet 
tender devotion had won upon her young imagination — 
a live man of the West, full of practical talent, energy, 
and courage, and bidding fair to distinguish himself in 
public life. Following quickly upon his brief, earnest 
wooing, came their marriage and removal to his Western 


46 


MAKCR, 


home, in a town that had risen in a few years from a mere 
handful of log-houses to a thriving young city — a rapidity 
of growth characteristic of American towns when favor- 
ably situated on railroads or water-courses. 

Such were the prominent outlines of her past life that 
Melicent ran rapidly over in thought, as a contradiction 
of, a defense against, another set of recollections tliat 
pressed upon her with such bewildering, such maddening 
vividness — a panorama of changing scenes in a different 
and far lower social sphere, in each of which she seemed 
to see herself — another self — far different from the Meli- 
cent Avery of to-night, yet felt to be the same. She saw 
herself — a wild, untutored child of poverty — tramping 
barefoot through tangled woods, or riding bareback by 
her father’s side in the hunt. She saw herself, a child 
still, but a wife loving and beloved, happy as a queen, in 
her log-cabin ; fishing and hunting with her young hus- 
band ; working in the field with him ; holding the boards 
for him that he nailed on the house he was building — the 
house she was proud of, because it would have two rooms 
and a porch in front, where she might train her wild jas- 
mines and traveler’s delight. 

Breaking upon the scenes of careless, childlike con- 
tent, came that dark event whose memory (so vividly 
brought up by the sight of the block-house and the Gal- 
lows Tree”) had smitten, it seemed by an electric shock, 
a whole chain of paralyzed recollection into activity — ^the 
murder of the miner, the accusal of her husband, the 
lynching, the wild midnight ride through the woods, the 
terrible last scene of all, where a struggling form had 
shot up to sight, swinging from a limb of the “ Gallows 
Tree ” in the lurid torchlight. 


MAJVCH. 


47 


What did it all mean? Were these real memories, or 
was she laboring under some terrible delusion? She 
recollected now that some of these scenes had come to her 
in sudden, dim flashes often before, and she had spoken 
of them to her father, who had replied that they were 
only dreams or illusions of the brain. 

What suggested them to her to-day? Oh! she re- 
membered now : it was the sight of a man’s face — a man 
they had met on their way to the dinner-party — coming 
out of the woods with a gun on his shoulder. He had 
looked up shyly as they passed, and showed a sun-browned 
face and great, dark eyes, in which a frightened, deprecat- 
ing look was singularly blended with a fierce expression. 
It was this face that had seemed to unseal some scroll of 
remembrance in her brain that had gradually unrolled 
itself, fold by fold, during that painful day. Where did 
that face fix itself in this scroll of memory ? It seemed 
that it had belonged to her husband’s brother — the hus- 
band of this mysierious second self — of this child-wife, 
whose young brain, it appeared, had given way at sight 
of her husband hanging from the gallows. 

Had this really been herself, or was she going mad ? 
Oh ! if she could but see her father ! Surely he would 
solve for her this dreadful mystery. 

She rose and walked the room with rapid steps, and 
hands clasped before her. Heil — Neil Grifiin ! She 
stopped, as the name she had heard from Colonel Archer 
recurred to her mind. Neil 1 Surely the name had a 
sound of familiar tenderness in it. Could it be that she 
— proud, dainty Melicent — had ever loved, ever married 
that rough, illiterate son of toil — that man of whom her 
new-found memory-stores held a picture, in coarse shirt- 


48 


MAMCH. 


sleeves and fox-skin cap ? Had his lips ever pressed hers ? 

had her head ever rested on his breast, while his eyes — 

But here the picture grew suddenly luminous with the 
light of large, sad, earnest eyes, whose smile— 

“ Melicent ! ” 

It was her husband’s voice at the door. She started 
guiltily. She felt a burning flush come to her brow as 
she turned to the door where he stood. 

Melicent, you up yet ! I thought you had gone to 
bed half an hour ago.” 

“ If I had, I should not have been able to sleep. To 
lie down would only make me more restless. I will just 
read or walk off my nervousness here alone, Aleck, and 
come to bed when I feel more quiet. Don’t let me keep 
you up.” 

With his good-night kiss warm upon her lips, she sat 
down again by the window, to think of that other hus- 
band — dream-husband, could it be ? — who had loved and 
kissed her flrst, and who slept in a felon’s grave in the 
thicket that covered the slope of Gallows Hill. Did he 
sleep there of a surety ? The thought brought up another 
puzzle to her already bewildered brain. Why had Colo- 
nel Archer expressed that doubt of Heil Griffin’s death ? 
“ If he was buried at all — if he was hanged at all,” he 
had said ; and then directly afterward, “ A grave is no 
proof of a body.” 

What had he meant ? His tone, his manner intimated 
that he knew more than his words expressed. And how 
came he to know so much about the details, the date of 
the murder, when he had been in the place but a week ? 
* — so much more about it than did her husband, who had 
been living in the town for years ? 


MAKCH. 


49 


“ There is some secret about it,” said Melicent to her- 
self. As the thought came into her mind, she glanced 
down from the window where she sat — an upper window 
— and saw Colonel Archer standing on the piazza below, 
leaning against a vine-clad pillar at the farther extremity, 
and smoking a cigar, his line profile distinctly outlined 
in the moonlight against the background of dark-green 
leaves. With a swift impulse to question him concerning 
the mystery that tortured her, she rose and hurried down 
stairs, not stopping to think of the strangeness of her 
seeking him at such an hour, until she was quite near 
him. Then she wavered, paused a moment, but finally 
approached him with a slower and more hesitating step. 
He did not see her apparently — did not move until she 
had glided to his side. Then he turned quickly. 

I startled you,” she said timidly. 

“ A little. I heard a rustle, but thought it might be 
the wing of a passing angel ; it is such a heavenly night.” 

""‘‘You are quite mistaken, you find.” 

“ Hot so far wrong after all. You look like a spirit 
in that white robe and with that white face — too white, 
Mrs. Avery. Have you not yet recovered from your 
fright ? ” 

“ I am nervous and could not sleep. I thought of 
walking off my restlessness, and seeing you on the piazza, 
I came out.” 

He tossed his cigar oflT among the flower-beds. 

“ Shall we not walk, then ? ” he said. “ I, too, am 
restless. Shall we pace the garden-walk until the drowsy 
god is propitiated ? The scent of the night-blooming 
jasmine is alluring.” 

Melicent hesitated, as he bent his tall figure over her. 

3 


50 


MAKCE. 


‘‘I think not,” she answered. “We will sit here 
awhile. To tell the truth, I came here to ask a question. 
You have excited my curiosity.” 

“ About what % ” 

“ The block-house murder. Tell me all about it.” 

“ Oh ! no more of that to-night. It is not good to 
sup on horrors. You will come down to-morrow with 
dark rings under your lovely eyes.” 

“ I shall, if you doom me to sleeplessness because of 
ungratified curiosity,” she said, forcing a lightness she 
was far from feeling. “ Be kind and tell me the 
story.” 

“ I have done so already, in a great measure. What 
is it that especially arouses in you the feeling of mother 
Eve?” 

“ Two things : your interest in the matter, and the 
doubt you implied of the — the murderer’s being dead.” 

“ I will tell you on condition of your repaying the 
favor by letting me know the secret of your interest in 
the matter.” 

“ Have I not told you it was woman’s curiosity % ” 

“ Permit me to doubt it. I have judged you to be 
singularly wanting in curiosity. I have known you a 
week, and I can usually read a woman through in half 
that time.” 

“ Ah ! but my book of character has some pages you 
have skipped. There are some leaves that are folded 
down.” 

“ I believe you,” he answered in a low tone, searching 
her face with eyes that made her shrink ; “ and believe 
m^, madam, I shall make it my task to unfold these 
leaves and read the secrets they contain.” 


MAJfCE. 


61 


His look, Ills voice, made her shiver with a passing 
feeling of dread. He saw it and smiled. 

“ Sit down,” he said, “ here, where I can see your 
face in the moonlight. I will relieve your curiosity in 
brief. My in' crest in the murder is told in a few words. 
The murdered man was my father P 

“ Your father ? ” 

‘‘ Even so. At the time of the murder he was re- 
turning home, after an absence of twelve years. He had 
left it, a bankrupt man, determined to retrieve his for- 
tunes in the land of gold. He wrote to my mother occa- 
sionally, and on these letters she lived, for she loved him 
with a good woman’s single-hearted devotion. At last 
he wrote that he was on the eve of returning home ; that 
he had amassed a fortune in gold and large diamonds, 
which he carried skillfully concealed about his person. 
It was the last we heard of him. After two more years 
of anxious waiting, my mother died, heart-sick of hope 
deferred. On her death-bed she made me promise that 
I would find out my father’s fate. In pursuance of this 
object, I went to California as soon as I could arrange 
my business. I have spent four years since then in try- 
ing to discover what became of my father. Six months 
ago I gained a clew. I traced him here, and found that 
he had been murdered eight years before. I am here 
a second time. Can you guess my object ? ” 

She shook her head faintly. 

“ It is to find the murderer — to avenge my father’s 
death.” 

“ Was he not avenged at the time ? Was not the man 
hanged ? ” 

“ That brings us to your second subject of curiosity. 


MAJfCH. 


r>2 

Yes, the man was hanged, but life was not extinct. I 
am sure of that. He was cut down, you remember, by 
the father of his wife. I am confident that he was re- 
stored to life by the old woman, his mother. His burial 
was a sham to cover his restoration and flight. I believe 
he still lives.” 

“ What is your reason for thinking so ? ” 

“ I have more than one reason. In the first place, 
the suspicion occurred to me immediately upon hearing 
how the murderer was cut down from the gallows, and 
how secretly he had been buried. Then I determined 
to sound the members of his family who are still living 
here. They are distrustful and cunning, and shy as 
foxes, and to get any clew from them was a hard matter ; 
but they had no suspicion of me, and by ingenious cajol- 
ery at last I succeeded in gaining a part of the informa- 
tion I wanted from one of the females of the family — 
the murderer’s sister, in fact — a weak-minded creature, 
so shy that it was only by cunning manoeuvring that I 
succeeded in getting to speak to her alone. I can’t begin 
to tell you how I managed to disarm all suspicion and 
induce her to tell me what she did — namely, that she had 
seen her brother (his ghost, she said) the night after his 
supposed burial, and had heard her mother tell him to go 
to his uncle in San Antonio. She had waked up, she 
said, in the middle of the night, and heard whispering 
voices in her mother’s room. She had crept in unper- 
ceived, and found that her mother was talking to her 
brother’s ghost in the closet. She seemed to be very 
angry with the ghost for not wanting to go away until 
he had seen his wife. The old woman opened the closet- 
door soon afterward, and the girl saw, by the faint fire- 


MAJYCH. 


53 


light that streamed in, the ‘ ghost ’ sitting in a chair with 
its face buried in its hands. This was all she saw or 
heard, for the old woman discovered her and beat her 
severely for meddling with ‘ unearthly things,’ as she 
called it. Afterward, to still further assure myself, I 
dug into the pretended grave on Gallows Hill, and found 
— what, think you ? — a moldy crutch, wrapped in a rag 
of flannel petticoat — a jest of the old crone’s upon the 
would-be executioners, whom she had frightened olf by 
her curses and her reputation for witchcraft.” 

Did you make this discovery lately ? ” 

“It was at my previous visit. Since then I have 
been to San Antonio, on the hint given by the girl ; but 
the scent was either a cold one or a wrong one altogether, 
and I am here again on track of the prey that I mean 
to hunt down if there is a possible chance in this world 
— the wretch, who deprived me of father, mother, and 
fortune.” 

“ Surely it is not likely he is about here ? ” 

“ Since I have told you so much, I may as well tell 
you all, though I know it is not a wise thing to conflde 
secret business to a woman. 1 have never spoken of it 
to any other person besides a detective — not even to 
Avery. You see what confidence I have in your discre- 
tion. To reply to your question — ^yes, I do think it like- 
ly, and more than likely, that the man I seek is about 
here, and that he has come to this place since I left here 
— probably for the first time since his flight. I have no 
proof of this, but I have reasons almost as conclusive to 
my own mind. 

“ In the first place, his near relatives are here, and 
persons of his class cling to those of their own blood, and 


54 : 


MAJTCH. 


may be safely calculated to come back and hang around 
them, if they have been driven away. Then it is a re- 
markable fact, as shown in police reports, that criminals 
exhibit a propensity for revisiting the scenes of their 
crimes. There seems to be some kind of fascination 
drawing them to the spot, at the risk of discovery and 
punishment. Perhaps it is Nemesis. 

But you will say these are mere general probabili- 
ties ; here is one more particular : On my return here, 
I again approached the girl Harriet ; but, though I did 
so even more cunningly than before, I found her entirely 
changed. She would not say a word about her brother ; 
she even denied having seen him (or his ghost) the night 
after he was hung ; it had been nothing but a dream, she 
said ; she always had the nightmare after eating cat- 
fish for supper; and this denial of having beheld his 
‘ ghost ’ was almost conclusive to me that she had since 
seen him and knew him to be alive, and was there- 
fore on her guard — had no doubt been put so by her 
mother.” 

“ Are these all your reasons ^ ” 

‘‘ Not quite ; I believe I have seen the man myself.” 

“ Seen him ! When ? — where ? ” 

Good heavens ! Mrs. Avery, do not look around so 
wildly ; are you afraid of his rising up like the ghost of 
Banquo ? I only wish he would ; man or ghost, I would 
have him then^ and he should never cheat the gallows 
again.” 

You said you saw him.” 

“ I said I thought I had seen him. It was only two 
nights ago. I have been in the habit of going out at 
night and watching around the Griffin habitation for any 


MAMH. 


55 


suspicious appearances. This cabin is some two miles 
down the river, upon the outskirts of the former settle- 
ment that was here, called Bear’s Bend. I was on my 
way there when I saw this man. It was near the place 
where had stood the house in which Mrs. Griffin and, her 
father were burned up the night after Griffin was lynched. 
Did I not tell you of this circumstance ? The place is 
not far from the cabin of the old witch, and is grown up 
in young cottonwood-trees. By one of these the man 
was standing, his hat drawn over his face. But for this, 
and the shadow of the cottonwood, I could have distin- 
guished his features, for I crouched quite near in the 
undergrowth. I saw him wipe his eyes twice on the 
sleeve of the old coat he wore, and heard him groan 
aloud. It was this circumstance that more than half con- 
vinced me I had found the man of my search.” 

“ Why should this convince you ? ” 

Do you not see ? He had visited the place where 
his wife had perished ; he was standing on the spot where 
her remains were buried ; he had loved her devotedly, it 
seems, and they say had committed the murder for her 
sake, that he might have money to spend upon her and 
to propitiate her father. It could have been no other 
man who had visited that place — that grave — at dead of 
night, to weep and groan over the lost love and happi- 
ness of which they reminded him. As the thought 
/ flashed upon me, I trembled with joy.” 

“ Joy ! — my God, for what ? ” 

“ Because I had found him. Ah ! madam, you must 
not measure my feelings by yours. I had no pity for 
the wretch. I saw only the hand that had struck my 
gray-haired father to the dust. I crept nearer — I crouched 


56 




like a panther to spring upon him, when a dead branch 
broke under my foot. lie turned and saw the shaking 
bushes, and ran rapidly out of sight through the under- 
growth in the direction of the river. I sprang to my feet 
and followed with all my speed, but could see nothing of 
him. I spent an hour in searching in all directions, but 
in vain. Since then I have not relaxed in vigilance, with 
the exception of to-night, when a clever detective watches 
in my place. I have a hope that I 'shall yet succeed in 
tracking the murderer to his den, and visiting upon him 
the long-averted vengeance. Will you not wish me suc- 
cess ? ” 

She had found it impossible to bear the scrutiny of 
his eyes as he proceeded with his story. She drew back 
and leaned her face against the balustrade in the friendly 
shadow of the vines, and dropped the trembling lids over 
her eyes. She did not speak for a moment; then she 
said, slowly : 

“Hanged as a felon until he had all the pain and 
shame of such a death ; bereaved of all he cared for ; an 
outcast for more than eight years ; a lonely, stricken man, 
stealing out at night and haunting the grave of his dead 
happiness — is not that retribution sufficient ? Leave fur- 
ther vengeance to God.” 

He laughed scornfully. 

“You talk like a soft-hearted woman,” he said. 
“ What will become of us if our State decides on giving 
the right of office-holding to women ? What judges 
they would make ! We should be overrun with pardoned 
criminals. Any one who could get up a few sentimental 
tears and groans would be sure of acquittal — especially if 
a man. Mrs. Avery, I would not spare the murderer of 


MAJ^CH, 


57 


my father, not if he offered me his weight in diamonds 
as large as those he robbed me of. I would rather my 
right eye were cut from its socket than have it lose its 
chance of seeing the noose fastened around his neck — fast- 
ened so securely that it would not fail the second time, 
as it did the first. I see you are shocked. It may be I 
am a savage ; perhaps it is a fault of association ; yet I 
love soft and gentle things — moonlight and fiowers like 
these, and fair beauty like yours. If the fates make me 
a bandit, as is not improbable, I will have a bride gentle 
as Conrad’s Medora, hid away in some lone Mexican 
ranch — tender-eyed, lily-white, with soft, round arms 
that T^ould adorn the diamonds I would encircle them 
with — as yours do. By the way, what large diamonds 
you have in that bracelet of yours ! a present from cher 
mar% I suppose?” 

‘‘ Ho, from my father ; they are family jewels,” said 
Melicent half absently. Then she looked up and caught 
the glance of his hold, black eyes, and rose uneasily. “ It 
is late,” she said ; “ I will not keep you up any longer. I 
thank you for your compliance with my request. One 
more favor — will you keep me advised if anything new is 
discovered in this matter? You are always sure of my 
interest.” 

“ And of your secrecy ? I shall depend upon that. 
I told you through your own solicitation, remember. A 
foolish thing, though, it was to make a confidante of a 
married woman ; of course regarding her husband as 
part of herself, after the orthodox fashion of devoted 
wives.” 

He bowed his head before her with that mocking 
curve on his mustached lip. He had risen and stood di- 


58 


MAJ^CIL 


rectly in her way, his look and manner demanding an 
answer to his request for secrecy. She stood still, hesi- 
tating a moment ; then she said : 

“ 1 will say nothing of what you have told me to Mr. 
Avery, although I think, instead of marring your plans, 
he would he apt to give you efficient help — in the way of 
shrewd counsel, at least.” 

He ignored her last suggestion. 

All right,” he said ; “ so it is a secret between us. 
I shall keep you posted in regard to all that is done or 
may happen.” 

Before Melicent slept that night she wrote to her fa- 
ther. She felt that he alone could throw light upon this 
strange experience. It was no use to confide it to her 
husband. After all, the seeming reality of remembrance 
might only be the chimera of an unhealthy brain. She 
had studied psychology ; she knew something of the sin- 
gular freaks of the human consciousness — the remarkable 
phenomena of the mind in abnormal conditions. She 
would do nothing until she heard from her father. Her 
letter to him was brief, but every word was freighted 
with earnestness. She described to him her singular awa- 
kening to what seemed another identity — to remem- 
brances of a life she had lived previous to her recollection 
hitherto. 

Either these are real,” she wrote, “ or I am going 
mad. Tell me, my father, I conjure you, as you would 
save me from the fate of a maniac ! My brain can not 
stand it. Best, peace, coherent thought, are impossible. 
Anything is better than this doubt and bewilderment. 
Write immediately ; let me know the truth. The truth 
must come at last — better now than when my health and 




59 


mind have given way under the effort to penetrate this 
mystery.” 

She said nothing of Colonel Archer’s supposition that 
Neil Griffin was alive. There seemed no necessity for 
doing this ; time enough to grapple with this new source 
of uneasiness when it was proved to be true. What she 
• wanted now, what she felt she must have, was a solution 
of her present torturing perplexity. It came with her 
father’s letter, a few days afterward : 

“ I will tell you the truth, Melicent, since your letter 
makes it imperative. Only for your sake have I with- 
held it. I trusted there would be no need of its ever 
being revealed to you. I hoped you would never awake 
to recollections of such a painful nature ; hut you have 
done so, and therefore, to relieve you from doubt and be- 
wilderment that might affect your reason, I will tell you 
all, and confirm the truth of these new impressions. Yes, 
these recollections that have suddenly awakened are true. 
You were indeed the wife of that criminal who perished 
on the gallows. The sight of him, hanging there, threw 
you into convulsions, which lasted until next day, when 
your little lifeless child was born, with none present but 
old Margaret and myself. You were unconscious at its 
birth. When the convulsions left you, I administered a 
powerful opiate, and you sank into a deep sleep. I knew 
enough about such things to be aware that you would 
probably not be in your right mind when you awoke. 
I knew that when convulsions take place under these cir- 
cumstances, they are usually followed by a condition of 
temporary derangement called ‘ puerperal mania,’ which, 
though not dangerous, lasts sometimes for months. But 


60 


MAJfCH. 


this knowledge did not deter me from my resolve to go 
away and take you with me. I did not mean to stay or 
to have you remain a day longer at a place where the 
only associations w^ere of pain and disgrace. I had other 
reasons for wishing to leave at once. My endeavor to 
save Neil Griffin from his sentence of death, and my 
action in cutting him down when I saw him hanging to 
the tree (actions prompted by my love for you), would, I 
felt sure, cause me to be suspected of complicity in his 
crime. 

“No step had then been taken against me (no doubt 
because of sympathy for you), but I knew the fickleness 
of an excited mob, and I determined to forestall it by 
escaping in time and leaving no trace behind. I took 
you asleep on your mattress, and with old Margaret’s 
assistance carried you out at night — carried you down the 
bank of the river and placed you in the skiff that Neil 
had just finished for me. It had a light awning over it, 
and was large enough to make you comfortable. I then 
set fire to the house to make it appear that we had per- 
ished in the burning building ; for I wanted to be dead to 
all who had known me at Bear’s Bend. I only wished I 
could tear the memory of my life there for ever from my 
mind, and begin existence anew ! 

“ Thanks to the strong current and the steady use of 
the paddle, we were soon far from the hated spot, and in 
due time reached Fairtown, where I found a small boat 
on the point of leaving, and transferred you to more 
comfortable accommodations. This took us to a place 
whence, by easy staging, we soon reached a station on 
the railroad, and thence were carried rapidly by steam 
northward, to the home of a widowed sister of mine 


MAJ^CB. 


61 


among the mountains. There I stoj)ped until jour health 
was restored. During all this time you had not been 
rational, though your disorder did not take a violent 
form. The shock received seemed to have paralyzed 
your nervous system — benumbed the faculties of your 
mind. It was weeks before this passed off, and then, to 
my surprise, and I confess my extreme gratification, I 
discovered that you had almost entirely lost all recollec- 
tions of your past life. The shock had nearly obliterated 
all previous impressions, and I took pains to make you 
believe that the faint reminiscences that came up were 
but the recollections of dreams and delirious imaginings. 
Your marriage had always been a source of mortification 
and self-blame to me, and I was oveijoyed that the re- 
membrance of it was destroyed, and that you could enter 
upon a new life of culture and refinement with no clog on 
your freedom of thought and feeling — no burden of bit- 
ter memories. It has been my sole happiness to see how 
happy you were in this new life — how well you were 
suited to the higher social station, the graces and privi- 
leges which successful speculation enabled me to bestow 
upon you. I thought the memory of the old time for 
ever blotted from your mind, and, when you were hap- 
pily married, I gave myself no further uneasiness con- 
cerning it. 

“ I blame myself here for one great oversight : it 
never occurred to me that your husband’s Western home 
might possibly be situated on or near that fateful place 
we left, and that the sight of familiar objects might 
bring to life torpid memories in your mind. If this had 
occurred to me, I should never have permitted you to go 
with him there. That his home was in the same State 


62 


MAJfCH. 


where we had lived was sufficiently annoying to me ; but 
it was ‘ in a new town,’ with a name unfamiliar to me, 
which I never supposed could occupy the same locality 
as the little settlement of Bear’s Bend. It appears 
strange that I should have been so unthoughtful as not 
to inquire into this ; it seems as though the hand of fate 
were in it — fate that has so often risen unexpectedly in 
my path and dashed my cup to the ground. Had not 
the sight of familiar objects at that place stirred the 
stagnant tide of memory, your life might have glided 
peacefully awaj^, with no thought of the dark depths that 
lay under the sparkling present. 

“ How, my dearly loved daughter, I have told you the 
secret of your former life ; let it be hid in your breast 
for ever. It is your secret and mine — divulge it not to 
another, least of all to your husband. To reveal it to 
him would be to strike a death-blow to your wedded hap- 
piness. It would also make him lose the great confidence 
he has in me, for he might not understand the motive of 
affection that prompted me to conceal your past life from 
you. It would diminish his love for you to know that 
the heart he has won, as he thought, in its freshness, had 
in reality passed through the sweet and bitter experiences 
of womanhood. Then, too, he is human, and in his dis- 
appointment he would hardly believe that you had been 
ignorant of these things ; he would suspect that you, as 
well as I, had intentionally deceived him, and only ac- 
knowledged the imposition when he was securely won. 
I tell you these hard probabilities that you may see how 
right it is in me to command you, as you value my love 
and your own happiness, not to confess the secret of your 
past life to your husband, as I know your frank nature 


MAJfCK 63 

impels you to do. Keep your own counsel, and all will 
be well. 

‘‘ My child, it may be I have done you a wrong by 
this concealment. If so, forgive me. It was done for 
your sake. I have lived but for you. I begin to fear 
I have done you a wrung.’’ 

“ A wrong indeed — a fearful, an irreparable wrong, 
my father ! ” were Melicent’s words, as she dropped the 
letter and the nerveless hand that held it down by her 
side. “ You have laid a burden upon my life that can 
never be lifted. I can never feel free and happy again. 
I can never meet my husband’s look frankly and honest- 
ly again. O God ! if this knowledge had only come be- 
fore I married him ! ” 

She mused awhile, and a tender thought welled up 
into her heart. 

“ And my poor little baby was dead,” she said softly. 
‘‘Was it left behind? Was its little body consumed in 
the burning house without my ever having seen it — ever 
having kissed its poor lips ? ” 

At the thought of the dead child she had never seen, 
she began to weep — a gush of tears that cleared her brain 
and brought relief to her overwrought feelings. 


CHAPTER lY. 

In the confused whirl of thought and feeling that 
kept Melicent sleepless through the night that followed 
the reading of her father’s letter, one thought came per- 


64 




sistently to the surface — that Neil Griffin was probably 
still alive. Her father’s letter had not made mention of 
any such probability. He could not have entertained it 
surely, else he had not permitted her to marry Mr. Avery ; 
and yet a doubt of his integrity obstinately thrust itself 
into Melicent’s consciousness. A shadow of suspicion 
had lately darkened her half-worshiping trust in her 
father. He had clearly been wrong in this business. He 
had erred, doubtless, through motives of affection for and 
pride in her ; but she felt a melancholy conviction that 
his act had put a lasting barrier between herself and the 
free and honest enjoyment of life. In her marriage rela- 
tion, she must bear for ever the guilt of concealment — 
the burden of secrecy — so foreign to her nature. And to 
this must be added the dread of discovery — the haunting 
fear of the denouement which must take place if Neil 
Griffin should be alive, and if his relation to her should 
come to light. Then she recalled Colonel Archer’s almost 
savage eagerness to ferret out and drag to punishment 
this murderer of his father. Would he succeed? Was 
it likely, as he believed, that Neil Griffin was near at 
hand — concealing himself somewhere in the vicinity of 
his old home ? How would it affect her if she knew that 
he was taken — that he would be executed and justice be 
satisfied at last ? W ould it indeed be justice ? She remem- 
bered how fully the girl Milly had believed in the inno- 
cence of her husband. Now, as she looked back through 
the newly opened vista of memory, and the details of the 
murder came to her one by one, she saw reason to retract 
her trust. Who else could have committed the deed ? 
Why did Neil refuse to give up the name of the mur- 
derer, whom he admitted that he had seen ? What rea- 


MAJ^CH. 


65 


son could he have had for persisting in the refusal when 
his life was in such fearful danger ? It must have been 
a mere subterfuge. “ He was, he must have been guilty,” 
Melicent thought ; yet how clear and steadfast his eyes 
had looked into hers when he asserted his innocence ! 
‘‘ And,” whispered Memory, “ how sad and tender they 
were when they rested upon you in that last interview! ” 
Then she remembered Archer’s words — that the man had 
committed the deed for the sake of his wife — “ to get 
money to spend on her and make a lady of her.” It 
must have been so. She recollected how eager he was to 
make money, that he might render her more comfortable, 
and give her some of those luxuries and pretty things ” 
that her fancy seemed to delight in. She recalled her 
own bitter, discontented expression on the night when 
the miner had shown her the diamonds and gold orna- 
ments. And the remembrance of all this brought a feel- 
ing of remorse — a pitying interest — it may be, also, a 
revival of something of the old tenderness, that ended in 
overpowering her personal distress and giving birth to a 
determination that, if possible, she would warn Heil Grif- 
fin that he* was in danger, and help him to find safety in 
flight. She would do this regardless of her implied prom- 
ise to Colonel Archer. She had given no direct pledge 
of silence, only as regarded her husband ; and if she had, 
she could not let it interfere with the feeling that seemed 
now to bind her as a solemn duty — to save the man who 
had been her husband, and vrhose crime, if crime he had 
committed, lay in part at her door. But how should she 
warn him ? How should she see him ? How could she 
ever find w^here he was, if indeed he still lived ? 

With a vague impulse — the offspring more of unrest 


66 


MAJ^CH. 


than of hope — she determined to see old Hagar, and talk 
to her, not letting her, of course, know who she was. 
She was in the habit of riding on horseback, accompa- 
nied by her husband. She would not want him to go 
with her to-day, and it was fortunate that he had ridden 
out into the country on business. Colonel Archer, too, 
had gone away — quite early, it seemed, for he was not 
present at the breakfast-table. Melicent ordered her 
horse to be brought, and put on her riding-habit with 
hands that trembled with nervous excitement. As she 
fastened her hat, she looked into the mirror and studied 
her full-length reflection for a moment. Would they 
know her ? — especially this shrewd old woman, who was 
I^eil’s mother, and whom she had so feared in times past, 
yet who had more than once been kind to her in sickness 
and in other troubles incident to a motherless girlhood ? 
She remembered herself as she had looked in the little 
round shaving-glass that hung upon a nail in the wall of 
her log-cabin home nearly eight years ago — the plump 
round face, short curls, and brown, rosy cheeks. Did 
the picture bear much resemblance to the one that con- 
fronted her now — this stately shaped, fair woman, with 
her crown of rich hair, darker in hue than it had been in 
those early days, as her flgure was taller and more sym- 
metrical, her expression more intense, and her features 
more flnely molded, through reflning influences ? Even 
her eyes had grown deeper and darker, as it seemed, 
and the brows arched above them were more clearly de- 
fined on her high, pale forehead. Add to these points 
of difference the great change made by dress and man- 
ner, and it was clear that Melicent Avery would never 
be recognized as Milly Grilfin, 


MAKCH. 


67 


No, they would never know me,” she said to her- 
self, with a half sigh, as she turned from the mirror, 
“ even if they did not believe me dead, and my bones 
buried in that neglected mound under the cottonwood- 
trees.” 

She was obliged to pass this place on her way to Ha- 
gar’s cabin. She remembered just where the house had 
stood. It was wonderful how vivid now were her recol- 
lections of all those scenes and events of her life that 
until recently had been sealed in some mysterious vault 
of memory. They seemed all the fresher from having 
been so long locked away and suddenly opened by the 
key furnished by the sight of the block-house and the 
“ Gallows Tree.” 

She drew the reins of her horse upon the spot that 
had once been occupied by her former home. Grass and 
weeds covered it, and a grove of tall young cottonwood- 
trees rustled mournfully around. She was not long in 
finding the spot where the few bones that had been gath- 
ered up from the ashes of the burned house (supposed to 
he those of her father and herself) were buried. She 
saw where the grass had been recently cleared away from 
the place by a careful hand. Whose hand could it be ? 
She thought of the man seen here by Colonel Archer — 
the man who had leaned against the tree and groaned so 
bitterly. It must have been he who had secretly cleared 
away the weeds from the neglected grave. Who could 
this be but Heil Griffin ? 

Melicent rode about the place lingeringly, looking 
around her and starting excitedly at every rustle in the 
undergrowth — at the slow swaying of the moss that hung 
from the old ash-tree that had stood near the door, a part 


68 


MAJfCH. 


of whose branches were now leafless and blackened, hay- 
ing been killed by the Are. Once or twice a name rose 
to her lips that she could scarcely restrain herself from 
uttering aloud, so strong was the spell of memory upon 
her. At last she rode away in the direction of Hagar’s 
cabin, which stood but a few hundred yards away, but 
farther back from the bayou. Its appearance was hardly 
changed from what she remembered it to have been in 
times past — only more gray and moss-grown, and crouch- 
ing more forlornly under the shadow of the great pecan- 
tree that towered over it. The little end room that Har- 
riet had occupied still had its one window, full of bloom- 
ing plants of some kind, and beneath it was a plat of 
gaudy flowers — wild red poppies and hibiscus, blue lilies 
and flame-colored pink-root ” blossoms — ^making a patch 
of bright color that contrasted with the sullen gloom of 
the place. Here she saw Harriet, seated under the 
broad, red-shaded leaves of her favorite castor-bean tree, 
knitting, while she sung a droning song that sounded 
like the monotonous hum of an insect. 

Melicent’s eye moved hurriedly around, and soon 
caught sight of the tall figure of old Hagar. She was 
standing at the dilapidated fence, with her back to the 
road, and her large, bony hand shading the sun from 
her eyes as she looked off over the field toward the dark 
wall of woods that rose in the distance. Melicent’s 
heart beat quickly with a momentary return of the old 
feeling of fear with which Heil’s fierce mother had been 
wont to inspire her. ‘‘What if she should know me? 
What if she should suspect me of having sinister designs 
in coming here ? What pretext can I possibly make for 
stopping to see her ? ” Luck favored her in the last par- 


MAJfCH. 


69 


ticular. A flapping noise attracted her attention; a 
hoarse, strident cry caused her to start and look quickly 
down. She saw, in a narrow inclosure by the roadside, 
a great white bird that she knew must be a swan. Its 
wings drooped, and some of the feathers were broken 
and soiled, as it flapped discontentedly in the scanty 
water contained in a shallow, vat-like receptacle ; but the 
long, arched neck and proudly curved breast were still 
stately and swan-like. Its melancholy cry excited Meli- 
cent’s pity. ‘‘ It is a shame that so beautiful a creature 
should be penned in this place to pine and die,” she 
thought. “How different it would look in our pretty 
lawn, swimming in the little pond among the lilies ! ” 
And then it flashed upon her that the swan would fur- 
nish an excellent excuse for stopping — “ to see if it could 
be bought.” 

She dismounted at once, and was fastening her horse 
at the fence, when a large brindled dog, that had been 
standing at old Hagar’s side, turned round and growled 
fiercely- In an instant he had jumped the fence and 
flew at her, barking savagely. She shrank back, uttering 
a scream of terror, expecting tlie fierce-looking brute to 
tear her in pieces. But his angry attitude suddenly 
changed ; he stopped barking, and presently his tail 
began to wag delightedly, and he approached her and 
thrust his nose against her hand, in token of recognition. 
It was mutual, for Mel i cent now recognized him as a 
dog that had belonged to Heil, that she had fed and pet- 
ted when a puppy, and hunted squirrels with on many a 
bright October day. She patted his head, bent down 
and whispered : “ Chowder, good Chowder ; yes, I am 
Milly,” feeling a kind of relief in confiding her secret 


70 


MAmE, 


even to a dumb brute, as did the barber of King Midas, 
who whispered the secret of his royal master to the be- 
traying reeds of tlie river. Chowder seemed about to 
prove nearly as indiscreet a confidant, for he bounded 
around her, whined, and wagged his tail with such a 
vehement expression of delight that Melicent feared it 
would prove betraying. 

“ Come here. Chowder — come here, you fool ! What 
do you mean ? ” called out old Hagar in angry astonish- 
ment. 

Melicent turned, bowed, and said “ Good morning,” 
in her politest tones. Then perceiving, from the wo- 
man’s gruff response, that she would not be invited to 
go in, she opened the gate herself and entered the yard, 
with the dog at her side. 

“ I was riding by,” she said, “ and saw the pretty 
captive you have yonder. I wanted to take a nearer 
look at it — perhaps purchase it, if you are willing to part 
with it. — Down, dog ! — behave, sir ! ” for Chowder was 
still bent on expressing his gratification at their meeting. 

“Begone, will you!” cried the old woman to the 
dog. “ What’s got into you to-day ? I never saw you 
so before ; vrhat’s turned you to a fool % ” 

She flourished her crutch, and would have struck 
him, but Melicent caught her hand. 

“ Don’t hurt him, please ; he’ll not annoy me any 
more. Dogs are usually fond of me, and I don’t mind 
their caresses.” 

“ I never knew this one to be fond of a stranger 
before, except as a bear is fond of a pig. What did you 
say you wanted ? ” 

“ To buy the swan, if you will sell it.” 


MAJfCH. 


n 


“ It’s not mine — it’s my son’s. He shot it at Black 
Lake and broke its wing. It’s likely he’d sell it if he 
was here.” 

“ He is not at home ? ” 

«Ho.” 

There was no encouragement for conversation in the 
woman’s tone, but Melicent was determined. She looked 
around for Harriet, but the girl had taken flight at the 
sight of a visitor. The gay little garden-plat had caught 
her eye. It was but a few yards square, and was in- 
closed on two sides by a little lattice of split reeds, com- 
pletely interwoven by delicate cypress-vines, starred all 
over with crimson flowers. 

“ How pretty this miniature garden looks in the sun- 
shine ! ” Melicent said, approaching it ; “ and those tall 
scarlet flowers, and spotted lilies and blue flags. Are 
they all wild flowers ? ” 

“ Yes ; the girl got them out of the woods. She says 
they bring the humming-birds and make company for 
her. I don’t care for them myself ; I don’t want com- 
pany.” 

You have your family: you are not lonely. How 
many children have you ? ” 

“A son and daughter.” 

“ Only two ? Are they all you ever had ? ” 

“ I had another son.” 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ He is dead — he was hanged ! ” cried the woman, her 
black eyes flashing luridly in their deep sockets. “ Yes, 
he was hanged ! That is what you want to hear. You 
knew it before ; you only want to hear what I will say 
about it for the sake of curiosity and for insult.” 


72 


MAJ^CH. 


“ I am a stranger here — I have just come to this town, 
but I have heard — ” 

I know you have. You have heard all about it. 
That’s enough. I won’t be insulted by any fine lady that 
lives. You had better go.” 

‘‘ Oh ! believe me, madam,” said Melicent, approach- 
ing her timidly, and laying her hand upon the woman’s 
arm, “ I would not hurt your feelings ior anything. I 
did come here for a purpose, but not to injure you or 
yours. I wanted to speak to you — to tell you — I mean, 
to ask you about your son.” 

‘‘ I told you my son Gabriel was not at home. 

Not Gabriel, your other son — who — ” 

“ I told you he was hanged.” 

‘‘ But — pardon me — is it not possible he may still 
live ? ” 

‘‘ The devil take you ! ” cried the woman, fiinging off 
Melicent’s hand ; “ you come here on that scent, do you ? 
There has been a fellow sneaking around here on the 
same business lately ; you are in cahoot with him, I sup- 
pose. Let him look out for his life ; I’ll shoot him like 
the dog he is if I catch him around my premises again. 
You can tell him that, my fine madam, if he is a partner 
of yours.” 

‘‘ He is no partner of mine. I am in no such business. 
I did not come here with any evil design. I wanted to 
see you, to get you to speak a word o£ warning to — to 
your son. I felt a sympathy, a pity for — ” 

‘‘ I don’t want your pity. I know what people’s pity 
means. I know what it’s always meant to me and mine. 
It’s like a cat’s pity, that pats and licks a rat before she 
crunches it. That’s what people’s pity has always been 




nz 

like to us, especially a woman’s. It was a woman’s pity, 
and love, and such stuff, that brought my son to the gal- 
lows ; and that’s what would bring him there again if he 
was alive.” 

“ Oh, how unjust and cruel you are ! ” cried Melicent, 
stung by this allusion, and feeling the tears rush to her 
eyes. “ If you would only trust me, if you would only 
believe me,” she went on, with a sob in her voice. 

A hand touched her timidly from behind. Looking 
around, she saw Harriet. 

“ Don’t cry,” whispered the girl ; you mean good, I 
know. Mimmy, what do you make the girl cry for ? ” 
Get yourself back into the house, fool ! ” cried the 
old woman angrily ; ‘‘ you’ve made mischief enough with 
your tongue. You’ll be saying some other wild thing for 
knaves and spies to seize hold of as if it was sense and 
truth, and go to raking about among dead men’s bones on 
the strength of it.” 

She’d never harm his bones — not she — not she,” 
muttered the girl, shaking her head, and looking into 
Melicent’s face in a way that made her tremble lest she 
had been recognized. But the next moment she added : 
“ She’s the mayor’s pretty wife. I saw her in a carriage, 
and she threw sugar-plums and oranges to the children.” 

‘‘ Humph ! cheap bribes for dirty votes ! Mayor, in- 
deed ! There’s where that spy’s been a-staying. I war- 
rant you, these two are in cahoot. Don’t forget my mes- 
sage to him, my lady. They call this the ‘ Wildcat’s 
Den.’ So be it, and let fine birds beware of it, or they’ll 
prove what claws are made for. Good day to you, mad- 
am. — Come in here, you hussy, and get back to your 
work ! ” 


4 






She caught hold of Harriet's sleeve as she spoke, and 
drew her wnth her into the house. It was evident she 
meant to prevent the girl from speaking with Melicent. 

Balked of the vague purpose she had had in view, 
Melicent mounted her horse again and rode sadlj away, 
keeping the path that led by the house and down the 
hill, running alongside a fence that inclosed a field of 
corn. At the bottom of the low hill she remembered 
that there was a bend in the bayou, and a spot where she 
had often when a child waded for shells, and where she 
and Neil had many times fished for perch, and made a 
day’s frolic of it by frying their fish under an old ash- 
tree where there was a thick carpet of fallen leaves, and 
where bunches of wild fox-grapes dangled overhead. She 
was sure she would know the place ; it was a little to the 
right of the road she was in. She turned aside from the 
path, and was riding on through the grass and shrubs, 
her mind occupied by reminiscences, when her horse came 
suddenly to a halt, reared slightly, and fell back. At 
the same instant a small apparition started up before her 
like a brownie of the woods. It was a boy, barefoot and 
bareheaded, with a mass of tangled curls on his forehead. 
He dashed the hair out of his eyes, and shook his clinched 
fist at her. 

“ Blast your buttons ! ” he cried shrilly ; “ you ride 
over white folks like they was rabbits, and mashes their 
hats to bits, and knocks their traps to pieces. Confound 
it! rii~rii— ” 

His voice died out in a kind of gurgle; the blood 
gushed over his face ; his clinched fist fell ; he staggered, 
and, in spite of his efforts to stand his ground, he dropped 
down in the grass. Melicent sprang from her horse and 


MAMCm 


75 


hurried to him, alarmed and remorseful. She lifted his 
little figure in her arms, carried him to the edge of the 
ba;y ou, and threw water over his face. At the first dash 
of the cold fluid he started and partially opened his eyes. 
The blood still flowed freely, and Melicent, terrified, 
burst into tears and exclaimed aloud : 

“ Gh ! poor little fellow, he is badly hurt I What 
shall I do ? What in the world shall I do ? 

He was already reviving; he opened his eyes and 
rubbed the water out of them with his knuckles ; then 
he struggled up and got upon his feet. 

Hello ! what’s this mean — what’s the matter % ” he 
muttered. 

“My poor little boy, you are hurt, and I did it,” 
Melicent answered. 

“Hurt! Ho, I ain’t; it’s just my nose a-bleeding. 
It does that any time it takes a notion. Your horse guv 
me a thump, but, bless you 1 it warn’t nothing to take 
on about. Granny gives me harder thumps with her 
crutch any day. Granny’s got a powerful arm yet, if it 
is a bit skinny. Why, what on earth was you crying 
about ? Did your horse throw you \ ” 

“ Oh ! no — I was sorry to see you hurt.” 

“ Is that all f ” he exclaimed, staring at her in incred- 
ulous surprise. “Would you cry about thatf Would 
vou be so sorry just for me? Why, granny never does ! 
Nobody minds about me.” 

“ Are you sure you are not hurt ? ” 

“ Oh 1 I’m all right.” 

“ And your trap ? ” 

“ That can be fixed up again as good as ever. It’s 
lost its luck at catching partridges, anyhow. Gabe says 


MAmn, 


're 

it ought to be tied with a silk string to bring back 
luck.” 

“Take this, then, and buy you one,” said Melicent, 
pressing two silver dollars into his little dingy palm. He 
looked at them with sparkling eyes. 

“ Why, it’s silver !” he cried. Then he tendered it 
back. 

“You are giving me this to pay for that knock on my 
noddle,” he cried, “and it’s more than it’s worth — a 
great heap more.” 

“ How much is it worth? ” asked Melicent, smiling. 

“ About a nickel, I should say,” he answered, with an 
air of calculation. “ It wasn’t much of a tap, anyhow — 
not worth gnat-heels> if you come to the fact.” 

“ And you’ll not take the silver ? ” 

“I’d like to have it. Sakes! how ’twould jingle in 
my pockets ! — only the pocket’s got a hole in it. Maybe 
I can trade you out of it, now. I’d take it in fair trade, 
and glad enough.” 

“ What have you got to trade, my little friend ? ” 
Melicent asked, in amused curiosity. 

“Just come this way and see, won’t you? It’s only 
a few steps off.” 

He led the way, and she followed him through the 
grass, until she stopped under that very drooping ash-tree 
she had been in search of, where she had been wont to 
sit fishing with Heil. A pen of rough cypress-boards 
was built under it now, and in the branches of the tree 
above the pen were hung several wicker cages containing 
birds. Looking into the pen, Melicent saw a happy fam- 
ily of partridges — the mother hen and a half-grown brood 
of six or eight, a pompous, glossy-winged 'paterfamilias^ 


MAKCH. 


Y7 


and several pretty pullets besides. A box of straw divided 
off into little nests was at one end of the pen, and the 
other was built down into the stream to secure a supply 
of water. 

‘‘ Here, you can have any of these that you like,” said 
the boy, climbing up to the top of the pen and pointing 
out his stock in trade with an air of business. ‘‘ There’s 
old Mother Brownie and her eight children — nice for a 
pie ; and here’s four fat pullets, and Sandy the king of 
the roost (I shouldn’t like Sandy to be put in a pie, 
though). And here up stairs, you see,” he went on, get- 
ting upon a plank that was laid across the pen, and sit- 
ting down so as to bring his head on a level with the 
hanging cages — ‘‘ here up stairs, the gentry are living : 
this fine couple in red coats,” pointing to a nice pair of 
crested red-birds, “and my young mocking-birds here, 
and yonder old fellow in a yellow suit, living to him- 
self because his wife died lately and left him a wid- 
ower. He pretended to be mighty down in the mouth 
about it, but I see he has come to his appetite and be- 
gun to slick up his feathers, to show he wants to marry 
again.” 

“ Are your mocking-birds good singers ? ” asked Meli- 
cent, much amused. 

“Pretty good for beginners, but they are not first 
rate like one of Ishrnael’s ; it can outsing a — Jews’-harp,” 
he concluded, evidently at a loss for a musical compari- 
son. 

“Would he sell them?” 

“ I don’t think he would ; they’re all his company, 
and he thinks everything of them — especially of Milly, 
the pretty hen.” 


78 


MAJ^CH, 


“ Milly ! ” Melicent caught at the name, but she 
would not betray her sudden interest. 

“ Who is Ishmael % ” she asked carelessly. 

“ Oh ! he’s the best — ” the boy began with anima- 
tion ; but some sudden afterthought seemed to strike 
him and quiet him at once. ‘‘ He is a friend of mine,” 
he said, after a short hesitation, speaking in a lower and 
changed tone. 

Does he live near here ? ” 

“ Hot very. Do you like any of these ? ” he asked, 
pointing to the birds. 

I will take these scarlet-coated beauties, if you will 
let me have them. I shall hang the cage in my smoke- 
tree, since they look so much like two jets of flame.” 

“ I’ll bring them to you to-morrow, cage and all. 
But you’ve got store-bought cages, I s’ pose, twice as nice 
as this.” 

“Yes, nicer, but not so rustic-looking. These are 
woven out of willow, and are very delicately flnished and 
shapely. Did you make them yourself ? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ A friend made ’em for me,” he said, adding hurried- 
ly, as if he did not wish to be questioned concerning the 
“ friend ” : “I had better go and see about your horse ; 
you didn’t fasten him. I’ll bring him to you.” 

He slid down from the pen and bounded off through 
the grass. Melicent watched his little, active, wiry flgure, 
in a ragged green jacket, with the sun shining on his bare 
head covered with a tangled mass of brown curls, that 
looked as though no mother had ever smoothed them. 

“ What a singular little creature ! ” she thought ; “ so 
shrewd and so independent. * The idea of a ragged mite 


MAJsCCR. 


Y9 


like him refusing to take money unless in a ‘ fair trade ’ ! 
I wonder where he gets his gentlemanly instincts ? Is 
old Hagar his grandmother ? And who can ‘ Ishmael ’ 
be ? ‘ Ishmael the son of Hagar,’ ” she mused, thinking 

of the Bible tradition ; Ishmael the outcast. He might 
take that name very well ; it would be appropriate. I 
must get the boy to tell me more about this Ishmael ; but 
it will not do to ask him as if with a purpose. I can see 
he is on his guard.” 

Presently he came back leading the horse, and stood 
stroking its mane and patting it with a boy’s delight in a 
tine horse. Melicent took the reins in her hand and sat 
down on a moss-grown log. 

“How that we have struck our trade about the birds, 
you will not refuse the money any longer,” she said, 
smiling at him as she opened her purse. 

But he shook his head (that he had now covered with 
the fragment of a hat) and shrugged his shoulders — a 
comical double gesture, expressive of shrewdness as well 
as negation. 

“ Not yet,” he demurred. “ You know the old sayin’ 
about the two bad paymasters — the one that never pays 
and the one that pays beforehand ? How do you know 
but I would play you a trick — pocket your money, and 
you never see claw nor feather of the birds ? I’ll get the 
money when I bring ’em to you to-morrow ; that’s busi- 
ness.” 

“ Yery well,” said Melicent ; “it shall be as you say. 
But are you sure you know where to take them to ? Do 
you know Mr. Avery’s house ? ” 

“ Certain I do. And so you are the mayor’s wife ? 
I knew you before ; I saw you the day you come. I was 


80 


MdJfCH. 


in the crowd that met you at the depot, when the mayor 
made his little speech, and you threw sugar-plums and 
oranges to the boys from the carriage-window.” 

“ Were you there ? ” Melicent said, laughing. “ Did 
you get any of the sugar-plums ? ” 

“ No, I wouldn’t scramble. But I got something you 
had. You dropped a flower and I picked it up ; here it 
is now.” 

He went up to the gnarled and knotty trunk of the 
ash, and, inserting his hand into a hollow aperture in the 
side, drew out a piece of paper carefully folded. He 
opened it and showed a withered bud of the cape jas- 
mine. 

‘‘ This hollow tree is my storehouse and my bank,” 
he said. ‘‘ I keep all my valuables here.” 

“‘Valuables’?” Melicent repeated, smiling at the 
idea of the word in connection with the ragged little fig- 
ure before her. “ I should like to see them.” 

He hesitated and looked around at her. 

“ You’ll make fun ? ” he said, doubtfully. 

Melicent threw the reins of her horse over the stump 
of the fallen tree, and came and sat down by him. 

“ Not I,” she said. “ I shall like to see them.” 

He put his hand into the hollow tree and took out an 
old oyster-can, containing two big blue marbles, a fishing 
line, and a harmonica; next he drew out a large brass 
locket shaped like a watch. 

“I found that,” he explained. “It’s my biggest 
luck.” 

Then he took out an old pocket-book, that had three 
good nickels inside it and one lead one. 

“ I got that in fair trade,” he commented, exhibiting 


MAJ^CIT. 


81 


the counterfeit. “ At least, I mean it was fair on my 
side. I sold a boy a fish for five cents, and he cheated 
me — give me that no-’cOuiit nickel. That was a sneaking 
trick, wasn’t it?” 

“ It was. What did you do ? ” 

“ Why, I told him he was a thief, and we fit about it.” 

“ And you whipped him ? ” 

“ Ho, he licked me ; you see he was bigger than me. 
Here are my hooksP 

He pronounced the words my books ” with as much 
importance as though he were a bibliophile introducing 
her to his select library. He took out one by one, and 
carefully brushed and smoothed, a miscellaneous collection 
of dingy volumes and fragments of volumes. There was 
part of the history of “ Jack the Giant-Killer,” with 
wonderful red and yellow pictures ; a dime novel with a 
sensational woodcut on the back representing a young 
woman — all streaming hair, bare arms, and exaggerated 
calves — being carried off by a bewliiskered villain on a 
flying steed ; then a fragment of ‘‘Baxter’s Saint’s Rest” 
and an old Methodist hymn-book in a leather cover; 
lastly, a “Webster’s Spelling-Book,” the worse for han- 
dling, and opening of itself at the picture representing 
the boy being pelted out of the apple-tree. 

“ Can you read these ? ” asked Melicent. 

“ Not yet,” he answered, eying them wistfully ; “ but 
I’m past ‘ baker,’ and by Christmas Ishmael says — ” 

He drew in his breath quickly and altered his sen- 
tence : 

“ By Christmas, I think I’ll be in ‘ tribulation.’ ” 

“ Not very deep in it, I hope,” said Melicent, disposed 
to smile. 


82 


MAJ^CH. 


She had noticed how he checked himself at the in- 
voluntary mention of Ishmael, and presently she said 
quietly, as she turned the leaves of the spelling-book : 

“ Ishmael is the school-teacher, I suppose ? ” 

“No,” was the brief answer. 

“ He is a relation of yours, then ? ” 

“ No, he ain’t no kin at all.” 

“ Who are your relations ? It is the old woman Ha- 
gar that you call granny, isn’t it ? Is she your grand- 
mother ? ” 

“ She says she ain’t, but folks call her so.” 

“ Who is your mother? ” 

“ Folks says Harriet is, but I don’ know ; she ain’t 
never said she was.” 

“ And your father — who is he ? ” 

“ Don’ know that neither. I’ll tell you wliat, I don’t 
think I ever had any mammy and daddy ; I just rained 
down some day like the frogs. I’ve seen them rain down 
— ain’t you ? ” 

“ I have heard of it. But your name ? You have not 
told me what to call you.” 

“ I’m most as bad off about a name as I am about a 
daddy and mammy. Granny calls me Cub, and that 
means a young bear ; and t’others calls me Manch, and 
that means as bad.” 

“ Manch ! What does it mean ? ” 

“ Why, the wise folks that says Harriet’s my mother, 
says my father is a Comanche Injun — a brave that was 
hung or shot some time or other for taking scalps. They 
call me Comanche from him — Manch for short, you know. 
Do I look like an Injun ? ” 

He threw up his head, pushed the tangled hair back 


MAJfCH. 


83 


from his forehead, and looked anxiously at Melicent. 
She, on her part, regarded him attentively. It was a 
singular little face, thin and sunburned, with large dark 
eyes. Its expression combined shrewdness with melan- 
choly, defiance with gentleness, while there was a look of 
sturdy self-reliance about the small, childish mouth, that 
was pathetic in so little a fellow. 

“ Indian ! ” Melicent repeated. ‘‘ Indian, with such a 
brow ! ” and she stroked his forehead with her white 
fingers. ‘‘You look no more like an Indian than I do, 
my child.’’ 

“ But you do resemble Harriet,” was her unuttered 
thought. “ Those eyes, with their sad, patient depths, 
and their occasional startled, deer-like glance, are like 
hers and Gabriel’s — and 

“ Really, I must go,” she said, rising, half startled to 
think how long she had been away. “ Good-by, Manch. 
Don’t forget me ; be sure to come to see me to-morrow.” 

She sprang hurriedly into her saddle and rode away. 
She looked back when she was a little way off, and saw 
the boy still watching her. Her heart yearned strangely 
over the little lonely-looking, poorly-clad figure standing 
there under the old ash-tree where she had stood so often 
when a child, and afterward when she was Heil’s wife, 
with Neil by her side. 

When she reached home, Mr. Avery met her at the 
gate. 

“ My love,” he said, “ what a long ride you have had 
alone ! ” 

“ Not so long as you think, Aleck ; I stopped at a 
cottage a mile or two down the river to look at a swan. 
Such a beautiful, stately creature to be imprisoned in a 


84 


Mdxcm 


pig-pen, with a puddle of dirty water to bathe in ! It 
was shocking to one’s poetic associations. How pretty 
it would be to have it for our little park — pasture as you 
will call it— to swim in Mystic Pond among the lilies ! 
Don’t you remember Mrs. Browning’s comparison anent 
Lady Waldemar at the wash-tub ? — 

‘ Conceive, Sir Blaise, those naked, perfect arms — 

Bound glittering arms — plunged elbow-deep in suds, 

Like wild swans hid in lilies all a-shake.’ ” 

“Ho, I don’t remember it at all,” he said, playing 
with a loosened tress of her hair, as they walked to the 
house. “ But I do remember that it is nearly dinner- 
time, and that we have company to dine with us to-day. 
General Foster is already in the drawing-room, and the 
Bradwells that we invited to meet him will be here di- 
rectly, no doubt ; and here is the mistress of the mansion 
in a riding-habit, with yards of rebellious hair to be 
built up in a fashionable tower upon the top of her 
head.” 

“ It shall be done as by magic, and I will appear in 
time to hear the doughty General’s before-dinner account 
of his exploits at the battle of Buena Yista, that I may 
compare it with his after-dinner version of the same story, 
as seen in the light of imagination, kindled by his honor 
the mayor’s champagne.” 

She waved her hand back to him playfully as she fin- 
ished speaking, and ran hurriedly up stairs, afraid lest he 
should remark the excited flutter of her manner, and the 
flush that burned upon her cheek. 

“Already I am descending to duplicity,” she said, 
throwing herself into a seat when she had reached her 


MAKCH. 


85 


room, and burying her face in her hands, painfully con- 
scious of the concealment she was using toward her hus- 
band. “ Yet how can I help it ? How can I tell him ? 
Would he credit the strange fact of my lost and suddenly 
I recovered recollection ? Would he not believe me leagued 
with my father in basely duping him ? ’’ And then came 
another thought. She knew her husband’s strict sense 
I of public duty — his inflexible, perhaps somewhat nar- 
row ideas of what was due to law and justice. Would 
he not think it right to bring the criminal to punishment ? 
At least he would be far from shielding or protecting him ; 
he would never consent to assist him in escaping. He 
would hold such an act as contrary to all moral as well as 
social obligations ; as a violation of his duty as a citizen — 
a duty all the more binding from the fact that he held 
a responsible position, and was looked up to by the com- 
munity as one who would protect its interests. 

“ Ho, no ! I could never tell him,” Melicent once 
more decided, ‘‘not even if I was not bound to keep si- 
lent by my father’s solemn injunction — not even if I did 
not know that to tell him now would be to forfeit his 
love and confidence. ’ And then, is there no duty I owe 
to other — the outcast, the hunted one % God help 

him ! If he is indeed hiding here — if this Ishmael should 
prove to be he — I will warn him ; I will save him at the 
risk of everything ! ” 

The day’s experience had wrought one change in Meli- 
cent of which she hardly took cognizance. It had called 
up many reminiscences connected with Heil Griffin ; it 
had brought his image and his life, as she had known 
them, distinctly before her mind, and she no longer had 
any feeling of his guilt. She did not reason about it ; 


86 


MAJ^CH. 


she did not analyze her feelings ; she simply did not look 
upon him any longer as a murderer. Still, her fear re- 
garding the way his case would strike Mr. Avery proved 
that ehe was conscious her own opinion was not founded 
upon law or reason, and was not likely to be shared by 
others, or to stand in a court of justice. 

Melicent dressed herself for dinner with the usual 
care, but she went through the process mechanically, her 
thoughts being confused, as they always were of late, by 
the strange phase of destiny through which she w^as pass- 
ing. When she had finished her elaborate hair-dressing, 
she stood awhile before the mirror, that her own reflection 
might help her to put aside that other bewildering iden- 
tity — that “ second self ” — the memory of which was 
strangely enough becoming more real than her actual life 
in the present. She stood there in her trailing bronze 
silk and laces, her ample puffs, and braids, and jewels, 
remembering that she was the wife of Alexander Avery, 
wealthy real -estate owner and mayor of Alluvia ; remem- 
bering, too, that he loved her and trusted her, and that 
she carried a secret in her heart that already seemed divid- 
ing her life from his, alienating her sympathies, making 
her restless in his presence and eager to fly to solitude, or 
to the relief of a crowd. 

A trial awaited her down stairs. She had to reply to 
the Hon. Mrs. Brad well’s lady-like platitudes, and to en- 
dure her daughter’s pretty silliness ; she had to encounter 
General Foster’s stereotyped compliments, and to smile 
at the Hon. Bradwell’s original jokes about married life, 
and the tyranny of pretty wives. She had the additional 
discomfiture of meeting the keen black eyes of Colonel 
Archer fixed upon her with a look she did not like — a 


MAjYCR. 


87 


look that seemed to her to have amused malice mixed 
with its expression of bold admiration — a look that 
certainly conveyed the idea of fellowship, of collusion, 
founded upon their late conversation. When the Brad- 
wells had taken their leave, and the mayor had carried oti 
his friend the General to the stables to see a fresh ac- 
quisition in horse-flesh. Archer came and sat down by 
Mrs. Avery, and looked into her face with that half-ma- 
licious, half-admiring gaze. 

“ Your ride gave you a fltful color,” he said ; it 
comes and goes in a breath. What did you hear at the 
‘ Wildcat’s Den ’ ? Did the old cat show her claws ? ” 

“ The old cat ! ” faltered Melicent. “ Did you know? 
—where were you ? ” 

Not so far off that I could not see you very well 
with the aid of a fleld-glass. Did I not tell you there, 
was a sharp lookout kept on that house all the time? 
But what did you do to make the old hag so angry ? 
How she scolded, and how scared you were ! I saw 
her swooping over you like a hawk over a pigeon. 
Did you make any mention of that gallows-bird, her 
son ? ” 

‘‘ I asked if she did not have another son besides the 
one she named.” 

“ And she took it as an insult — perhaps thought you 
were a spy. See here : let me tell you, you must beware 
how you speak to her or to any member of her family in 
a way to excite their suspicions. I am afraid they sus- 
pect already, and an injudicious question from you might 
put them on their guard, and make you a marplot instead 
of an ally.” 

“ An ally I ” Melicent said haughtily. “ You are 


88 MAJ^CB. 

mistaken ; I never proposed myself as your ally in the 
matter ! ” 

“ Counselor, confidante, coadjutor, then, if you please. 
Was I not to keep you advised of the progress I made in 
finding out the criminal?” 

‘‘Yes,” answered Melicent, every other feeling over- 
ruled by her anxiety to keep acquainted with the steps 
Archer was taking in detecting Neil. “Have you dis- 
covered anything more ? ” she asked, with an eagerness 
of manner that did not escape Colonel Archer. 

“ Nothing definite. I thought, a day or two ago, that 
we had flushed our game, but I am afraid it will prove 
that we are after the wrong bird.” 

“ What is he like ? Whom do your suspicions point 
to?” 

“Well, they have lit upon a kind of night-bird; 
comes out only after dark, when owls and bats do — a 
suspicious character, with dyed hair and whiskers, and 
green spectacles on what seems an exaggerated nose. 
He lives in a back room on a dirty street, and has no per- 
ceptible business beyond occasional peddling of thin- 
skinned jewelry.” 

“ Ah ! ” uttered Melicent, drawing a deep breath of 
relief. 

“ But we have nothing to go upon besides the facts 
that his appearance is suspicious, and that he has been 
seen conversing with Gabriel Grifiin. I fear it will prove 
a wrong scent. If it does, I will try a plan of my own I 
have been studying over; I think it a good one, and 
likely to succeed.” 

“ What is it ? ” asked Melicent quickly. 

“ Ah ! that’s telling. Who was it denied being my 




89 


ally so disdainfully a moment ago ? You can not deny 
an interest in the case. To tell the truth, the great in- 
terest you take in it puzzles me no little. There must he 
something at the bottom of it ; I wonder what it is ? ” 

“ What is there to wonder at ? The common fascina- 
tion of anything tragical — an idle woman’s penchant for 
a bit of romance — is that wonderful at all ? ” 

Yes, in you^ whose life is tilled up with other inter- 
ests — novel and satisfying, one would think. Newly 
made bride, mistress of a pretty house, and queen of a 
little circle, why should you concern yourself in the fer- 
reting out of a murder committed by a man you never 
knew, when you were in pinafores ? Why should it agi- 
tate you when first spoken of, and attract and absorb you 
afterward ? Confess that it is puzzling. And why,” he 
continued, his eyes seeming to burn her, so near they 
were, and so bright and keen — ‘‘ why, when I speak of 
this puzzle, do you tremble and turn pale, as you do 
now ? ” 

She felt that she had indeed changed color under that 
searching look ; she must ward ofi its scrutiny at all 
hazards. 

W^ill you give no weight to friendship ? ” she asked. 
‘^May not the matter interest me because it concerns 
you f ” 

His dark face lighted as by a flash ; he leaned nearer 
— his hand fell upon hers. 

“ If I could believe that,” he said, in a half whisper, 
so earnest that Melicent felt the blood rush to her tem- 
ples. She had caught at random at any suggestion that 
would help her parry his penetration ; she repented hav- 
ing done so the instant afterward. Mortified and indig- 


90 


MAKCm 


nant, she hurriedly withdrew her hand from his. As 
she did so, her husband entered the room. 

“ Melicent,’’ he began. 

She looked up startled ; the flush receded from her 
face, and left it pale. Seeing her confusion and Archer’s 
attitude, Mr. Avery stopped short and looked at them in 
grave surprise. Melicent rose hastily. 

You wanted me,” she said, going up to him and lay- 
ing her hand on his arm. He did not take the hand, nor 
did he reply for a moment. Then he said : 

“ I was going to ask you to help me with some writ- 
ing. My letters have accumulated lately, and I have 
notes to make for a speech. But it does not matter. You 
are engaged.” 

‘‘ Ho,” she responded quickly ; ‘‘ I shall be glad to 
help you. Colonel Archer will excuse me.” 

The Colonel bowed, showing his white teeth through 
his black mustache in a smile that had a tinge of the sa- 
tirical about it. 

The library joined the drawing-room, and was a bright, 
cheerful little room, eminently suggestive of quiet and 
domestic comfort. The round-table was pushed forward, 
and had papers and lighted candles upon it. The room 
had pleasant associations for Melicent. Here she and her 
husband often read and wrote together, but now she 
missed his usual manner. He was never demonstrative, 
but when they were alone he had quiet little caressing 
ways expressive of tenderness. These Melicent now 
missed, as they stood side by side at the table. She sat 
down and began looking over the pile of letters, on the 
backs of which he wrote rapidly in pencil the substance 
of the answers required. The door of the library, open- 


MAJ^CH. 


91 


ing into the drawing-room, had not been fully closed, and 
they could hear Colonel Archer walking restlessly up and 
down with his light, but lirm, soldierly tread. At length 
he paused beside the piano, and began to touch the keys 
and hum an air Melicent did not know. Presently he 
sang it, striking a few chords by w^ay of accompaniment. 
He sang in a low tone, but his rich, deep bass made the 
words audible : 

“ Never put love in a cage, ray dearie, 

Or liis eye will dim and his wing grow weary. 

Give him his will and he will not range ; 

He will make him a nest and never seek change. 

Bright and hard is the marriage-ring ; 

A kiss, I ween, is a sweeter thing. 

Fly from your cage, O bird I love best! 

And find in my arms a warmer rest.” 

^^An execrable sentiment!” muttered Mr. Avery, 
throwing down his pencil in disgust. He glanced across 
at Melicent, and she was conscious that there was grave 
questioning in his eye. She would have given much to be 
able to meet it with an open, fearless, unconcealed look, 
but she felt that she could not. The secret that had been 
forced into her life burdened her like guilt, and now it 
was becoming complicated by other concealments grow- 
ing out of it. What if these concealments should produce 
suspicion on the part of her husband, and end in alienat- 
ing his affections from her for ever ! How could she bear 
this ? He was a man whose love would seem like a crown 
to a woman — his tenderness was so exclusively given to 
the one beloved. To others his bearing was courteous 
and affable, but always with a touch of pride and reserve 
about it that kept even his friends at a distance. Onljy' 


92 


MAJ^CH. 


to her he unbent ; the keen, blue eyes softened, and the 
firm mouth relaxed into tenderness. There was one ex- 
pression, one smile of peculiar sweetness, that was re- 
served for his moments of confidence and affection. 
Melicent believed that she only of all the world knew 
the transfiguring power of that rare smile. 

Open, upright, and loyal-hearted was Alexander 
Avery, but proud and sensitive ; slow to suspect, but 
quick to resent a wrong when he knew it to be such. 
Perhaps he was somewhat narrow in his views of char- 
acter and conduct. Straightforward himself, he could 
not tolerate wavering or inconsistency in others. Meli- 
cent felt that he could not sympathize with her present 
state of mind, perplexed as it was by opposing feelings 
and conflicting ideas of duty. ' 


CHAPTER Y. 

Mr. Avery went away next morning directly after 
breakfast. He kissed Melicent as usual when she went 
with him to the hall-door, but she felt that there was a 
shadow of indifference both in the kiss and the look that 
accompanied it. He glanced a little impatiently at Colo- 
nel Archer, who had flung himself on a sofa and was idly 
snuffing the fragrance of a damask rose he had brought 
from his morning stroll in the garden. 

“Shall you attend the meeting at Liberty Hall to-day, 
Colonel ? ” he asked. “ In honor of General Foster, you 
know.” 

“ That depends,” answered Archer languidly. “ I 


MAKCE. 


93 


don^t feel attracted by politics just now. I may drop in 
later in the day, when you have all warmed to your work, 
and there is a tine current of magnetism stirring. I don’t 
care to hear the pop-gun batteries that I suppose will 
open the day.” 

When Melicent returned from the door he was still 
sitting in his half-recumbent position, tapping his mus- 
tached lips with the velvet-petaled rose. A smile lurked 
in his eyes when he raised them to Melicent. 

“ That good-by kiss,” he said. “ It is a part of the 
day’s programme, is it — a stereotyped matter-of-course 
fact, like the morning muffin and coffee ? I don’t like 
matter-of-course things. They are humdrum and flavor- 
less. The daily rose is a commonplace affair; a flow- 
er like this comes as a surprise. By the way, I had 
a rose-colored dream last night; should you like to 
hear it ? ” 

“ No,” said Melicent coldly ; ‘‘ I never care for dreams 
— the merest shadows of phantasy.” 

“ ‘ Thought by day makes dream by night,’ you know. 
Well, since you will not listen to fancy, can I entertain 
you with reason? Will you hear the detective plan I 
mentioned to you yesterday? I matured it last night 
over a pipe full of the weed celestial.” 

Melicent hesitated. 

“ Yes,” she said doubtfully. 

She was anxious to hear the plot that Neil G-riffin’s 
fate might hang upon, but she was most unwilling to have 
any further confidences with Colonel Archer. 

“ You hesitate,” he said, his eagle glance searching 
her face and detecting her reluctance. “You would like 
to hear what I have to say, but you don’t want to hear it 


94 




from me. Very well, let it pass with the dream. I shall 
not trouble your ladyship with my conversation.” 

“ Now he is displeased,” Melicent thought, “ and I 
must not make him angry, or I shall never find out any- 
thing further from him.” 

She moved a step nearer to his side, and said in the 
softest tones of her voice, that was most musical and 
thrilling : 

“ Pardon me. I am not well to-day. I scarcely 
slept at all last night, and I feel hardly equal to conver- 
sation. I think I will keep my room, and try solitude and 
quiet.” 

He looked long at her lovely pale face and drooping 
lashes. 

“ Pardon you ! ” he said, more earnestly than was re- 
quired. “ Assuredly. One could pardon everything in 
you but indifierence. You are too pale; that is true. 
Your lonely rides disagree with you. Companionship 
would be more cheering. I doubt the efficacy of your 
prescription of solitary quiet. At least, take my rose 
with you, and let it whisper sweet things to your soli- 
tude.” 

He laid it in her hand. Her first impulse* was to re- 
fuse it as coldly as she might, but her desire to retain this 
man’s good will caused her to set aside the impulse, and 
to close her fingers silently upon the flower. He saw the 
struggle in her mind, and smiled in his covert way as she 
turned off with a red flush staining her cheek that had 
been like a lily before. 

‘‘ She is afraid of me,” he said to himself, apparently 
well pleased. “I remember in Montana it was the shyest 
game that I loved best to hunt.” 


MAKCB. 


95 


The man was lawless by habit, perhaps by nature. 
He had lived so long in rude lands, outside the pale of 
civilization, that he had no regard for rules of society or 
codes of morality. Had Melicent been a maiden to be 
wooed and won, it is doubtful if he would have thought 
of her. He saw her a beautiful woman, hedged around 
by the barrier of marriage and mutual love, and he cov- 
eted the flower that was beyond his reach. Still, had it 
not been for that interview (of her own seeking) on the 
night of the revelation of the “ Gallows Tree ’’ — had it 
not been for the secret understanding then established 
between them, which had grown out of her relation to 
Heil, his vague admiration would never have ripened to 
passion, and never dared to express itself so boldly. 
Melicent felt this, and the consciousness of it added the 
bitterness of humiliation to her perplexity and distress. 

“ I must end it,” she cried, when alone in her room. 
“ At all hazards, I must put a stop to it,” she repeated, 
her cheeks burning with mortified pride and wounded 
delicacy. 

She did not know the stringency of circumstances, 
nor the difl&culty of drawing back when once the feet 
have been set upon unsafe ground. 

• “ Flora,” Melicent said, rising as her maid entered 
the room, ‘‘ I do not want to see any company to-day. 
Hemember, I am not at home to any one that calls. 

“ Why, Miss Melicent ! what for did you dress your- 
self so beautiful then in that shally dress that makes you 
look like a blue mornin’-glory % And you know the Brad- 
well ladies are cornin’ here to-day to see your new bon- 
net and dresses.” 

“ You can take them down for their inspection, then ; 


96 


MAJfCH. 


I do not wish to see them or any one else to-day. Yes, 
stay ; if a little boy conies with a cage of birds, show him 
up to my room.” 

Left alone, she tried to interest herself in writing to 
her father, but her feelings, that had once flowed out to 
him with such loving freedom, were now constrained 
and embittered. There was gloom in every direction her 
thoughts could turn ; and, looking forward, she seemed 
to see the shadow deepening into darkness, and all the 
beauty of her life eclipsed. 

She was roused from her melancholy musings by 
Flora rapping at the door and announcing that “ here 
was the boy with the cage of birds.” 

“Very well, let him come in; I want to see him a 
few moments. You need not wait,” said Melicent, ris- 
ing as Manch entered and deposited his cage on the floor. 
He had taken off his hat with the intention of putting it 
there also, but looking down at the carpet with its creamy 
ground and wreaths of bluebells and golden-green ferns, 
he snatched up the battered head-covering suddenly, with 
a sense of its unfitness to touch anything so dainty. He 
had a feeling of his own incongruity to his surroundings, 
which deepened as he saw Melicent coming to meet him 
— beautiful in her blue morning robe and shining hair, 
with the glow of genuine welcome in her lovely eyes ; 
for this little nameless child was the one person on earth 
whose coming to-day could give her unmixed pleasure. 
He colored with admiration and bashfulness, and hesi- 
tated to take her offered hand. 

‘‘ So you are as good as your word, Manch,” she said ; 
‘‘ I am glad to see you. What ! won’t you shake hands 
with me ? ” 


MAJ^CH. 


97 


His brown little fist came out of bis pocket. 

‘‘ It’s not fit to touch your hand,” he said, as she took 
it in hers. “ It looks like a bumble-bee in a lily.” 

“ What a quaint comparison ! ” Melicent said, laughing. 
“ But you are a queer boy any way, Manch. So, you 
have brought the red-jackets. See how bewildered they 
look ! They don’t think this is half so nice as the green 
ash-tree and the blue sky ; and neither do I.” 

“ Don’t you, now ? ” queried the boy, moving nearer 
to her and looking up with more confidence ; “ don’t 
you? That’s curious.” 

Why should it be ? Do you like it as well ? ” 

Oh ! it’s nat’ral I shouldn’t. I’m a ‘ Cub,’ you know 
— born and bred in the woods, as the rabbit said. If I 
lived here, I’d feel like the wolf in the story, when the 
dog wanted him to have full rations and a warm kennel, 
but he’d have to wear the collar and chain. I’d rather 
have hard fare and the freedom of the woods. But it’s 
different with a grand lady like you. It suits you ; you 
was born to it.” 

“You think I was to the ‘manor born,’ Manch?” 
Melicent said, smiling sadly. “Perhaps you are mis- 
taken ; perhaps rough log walls and green woods are old 
acquaintances of mine. But come, yon have fulfilled all 
the conditions of fair trade. You can’t refuse your pay 
any longer. Here it is — the silver dollars and some small 
money to help the jingle. But how about the pocket ? 
Is the hole in it mended ? ” 

He looked down. 

“ Harriet forgot to sew it, and I fastened it up myself 
— sorter,” he said, blushing, but with a comical twinkle 
in his eye. 


98 




“ Let me see it.” 

He turned the pocket inside out, and exhibited the 
hole lapped over and fastened with a pin. 

“ A very unsafe receptacle,” was Melicent’s comment ; 
“ not to be trusted when silver is the deposit. Here, 
take off the jacket and sit down, while I mend the 
pocket, or put in another one; this is hardly worth 
mending.” 

He shook his head. 

“ It’s not so clean,” he said, in a low tone, “ and it’s 
rough ; you’ll spoil your pretty hands and your dress.” 

“ Oh ! I’m not afraid of my hands ; and to please you. 
I’ll tie on this apron over my dress. I’ll show you some- 
thing to amuse you when you have given me the jacket.” 

He took it off without further demur, and watched 
her curiously while she opened her pearl-inlaid work-box, 
and fitted a tiny gold thimble on her finger. Then she 
took a small stereoscope and a handful of engravings 
from the table near her, and gave them to him. 

“ I see you like pictures, by the way you look at those 
on the wall ; here are some striking views and some 
pretty groups.” 

She showed him how to adjust the stereoscope, and 
then went to work on the pocket. From time to time she 
looked up and noticed that he took more than a child’s 
ordinary interest in the pictures. His face showed intel- 
ligent appreciation. Especially was he pleased with two 
pictures : one representing the charge of a wounded buf- 
falo upon a couple of mounted hunters on the prairie ; 
the other, a battle between the Cheyenne and Pawnee 
Indians — a stormy sky lowering over a savage display of 
wild horses and wilder men, the Indians sending their 


MAJ^CH. 


99 


hurtling arrows at each other as they dashed around in 
circles, dodging down and clinging to the bodies of their 
galloping mustangs, which were thus interposed as flying 
barricades for their riders. 

“ You understand about that,” said Melicent, observ- 
ing his eyes sparkle as he examined it. 

“ Oh, yes ! I’ve heard about it. Ishmael’s told me all 
about Indians and buffalo many a rainy night. He’s seen 
lots of wild places and things all over the world, for all 
he lives now in that lonesome little den on the bayou. 
Don’t you think that’s a cowardly way to fight — to dodge 
over on the safe side of your horse and let the arrows 
play the devil with the poor critter, while you keep out 
of harm’s way ? ” 

Yes, it’s rather cruel and cowardly. Tell me, why 
does he live by himself in the little den on Black Bayou ? ” 

“Who?” 

“ Ishmael.” 

“ Who said he lived there ? ” 

“You did — a moment ago.” 

“ Did I say that ? ” 

A look of distress and self-reproach overspread the 
boy’s face ; the stereoscope dropped on his knee, his plea- 
sure in it suddenly spoiled. His eagerness about the 
picture, it seemed, had caused him unwittingly to betray 
a secret. Melicent felt sure of this. He sat looking 
down on the hearth-rug in silence, and a tear wet his 
long lashes ; he dashed his hand angrily across his eyes. 

“ Dog-gone it ! I’m a long-tongued fool ! ” he ex- 
claimed. “ It’s just like granny said : what they want is 
to find out — that’s all. I’ll never trust anybody again ! ” 
What was it your granny said ? ” asked Melicent. 


100 


MAJrCH. 


He did not reply, but sat in moody reflection. 

I think I know what she said,” Melicent went on ; 
“ she told you I was a spy — trying to find out some one 
with a bad design.” 

He raised his eyes and looked at her earnestly — a 
searching, penetrating look that seemed to probe her very 
soul — a strange look for a child. He laid the tips of 
his small fingers upon her arm. 

‘‘Would you hunt out a man that way? ” he asked, 
in an eager whisper — “ a man what had had trouble and 
sickness, and was living ofiP to himself and not doing 
no wrong even to a dog? Would you help to hunt him 
out and bring him to harm — hang him, say ? ” 

“ Hot for the world — oh ! not to save my own life ! ” 
cried Melicent, in low, heart-felt accents. 

His eyes brightened, but he did not speak. 

“ If you mean Ishmael,” Melicent went on, “ let me 
tell you, Manch, I wish very, very much to know all 
about him, from a motive of my own — not to do him 
harm, but to do him good. Will you not tell me all you 
know of him ? ” 

“Ho ; Fve told too much already. I wish my tongue 
had been clipped before I said what I did ! ” 

“ You will not trust me with your secret, then. Well, 
I will trust you with mine ; I will tell you what I have 
never told anybody before. Listen to me attentively. I 
have a friend who loved a man very much. He disap- 
peared, and she thought him dead. Long afterward she 
found out he was still living, but was in great danger of 
losing his life. There was an enemy on the lookout for 
him. She (this friend of mine, you understand) wanted 
to find out where he was, that she might put him on his 


MAKCB. 


101 


guard — might warn him who was in search of him, and 
what plans were laid for his discovery. She wanted to 
find him out, that she might help him all she could — help 
him with means to get away if he wanted it, and with 
information where he might find a person in a far city 
who, for her sake, would befriend him with infiuence 
and money.” * 

The boy listened to her intently — ^his earnest eye 
fixed upon hers. 

‘‘You said this friend loved him once, a long time 
ago ; does she love him now ? ” he asked. 

The question confused Melicent ; her cheeks burned 
as she answered low : 

“ She must care for him, or she would not take this 
interest in his welfare.” 

“ And you think — that Ishmael may be the man ? ” 

“ I can not tell ; Ishmael was not his name.” 

“ How did he look ? Did you know him % ” 

“ I have seen him — years ago ; no doubt he is greatly 
changed since then. But there was one peculiarity about 
him which may still be the same. He had singular eyes ; 
that is, the expression — the look in them, you know — 
was singular. They were large, with long, curling lash- 
es; and at times they had a wild, startled look, like a 
deer’s or some wild creature’s that you have just caught. 
That was the look that came into them at times ; at oth- 
ers they were soft and gentle, with a sort of sorrowful 
look like some animal’s — a dog, for instance — that has 
been badly treated and can never forget it, but does not 
bear any malice on that account.” 

The child hung upon her words with the same anx- 
ious intentness as before, following the very motion of 


102 


MAJ^CH. 


her lips as she described the eyes of I^eil Griffin. She 
saw by the expression of his face that he recognized the 
peculiarity she portrayed. He looked down, as if in- 
stinctively fearful she would read his thoughts in his 
eyes. She waited a moment for him to speak, but he 
did not raise his head. She said at length : 

“ 1 liave told you my secret, Manch — a secret I have 
never spoken of to any other person — not even to my 
husband. I trust it to you. Remember, do not betray 
me.” 

“Ko, I won’t — unless,” he added, with a bitterness 
of self-reproach, unless I play the fool and blab it out 
unknownst, as I did poor Ishmael’s.” 

“ But you have not told anything about Ishmael — at 
least, anything of importance. I have trusted you with 
my secret, but you will not show equal confidence in me.” 

“ This ain’t my secret ; if it was, I shouldn’t mind 
telling you ; but you see — ” 

His Voice dropped abruptly, and he remained looking 
down in silence. Melicent finished putting in the new 
pocket, and sat with the jacket in her lap, and her hands 
clasped tightly upon it. He looked up, and regarded her 
with a grave fixedness that made his small face look old. 
At last he said, slowly : 

“ When your horse struck me on the head, when I 
was baiting my trap yesterday, and knocked the breath 
out of me a bit, you cried about it ; I saw you.” 

Well, there was nothing strange in that.” * 

“ Yes, there was ; it was strange you should care 
enough to cry about me. If you cared about my getting 
that little hurt, I don’t think you would want to harm 
him}'* 


MAKCU, 


103 


“ No, indeed, I would not. Child, as God hears me, 
I mean him only good. You can trust me.” 

“ I will trust you — I am going to tell you all I know 
about Ishmael ; but if granny knew it my skin wouldn’t 
be worth tanning,” he added, with one of his curious 
transitions from gravity to ludicrousness. 

“ It was early this summer, about hoeing-time, that 
I saw Ishmael for the first. He came to granny’s house 
one night. She was sitting nodding over the fire that 
had a’most gone out. There wasn’t anybody in the room 
but her and me. I was lying on my pallet in the corner, 
but I wasn’t sleep ; I was sick, and the fever made me 
wakeful. I saw Ishmael when he first came in, before 
granny turned round. He looked mighty pale and weak, 
and he was lame a little ; you know he’d had the rheu- 
matiz fever. When granny saw him, she jumped up and 
give a howl. ‘ God save us ! It it you or your ghost ? ’ 
she said, and she called him a name that — well, it wasn’t 
Ishmael.” 

Was it Neil ? ” asked Melicent, speaking low. 

He nodded. 

“ That was it ; I never heard the name called before 
nor since, till now. Ishmael put out his hands and 
cried : 

“^Not that name — that name is dead. I am Ish- 
mael, the wanderer.’ 

“‘Son of Hagar, the despised,’ granny said. ‘You 
chose your new name well, my boy.’ 

“ He sat down by the fire to dry himself, for the 
night was misty and chillish. Chowder came and laid 
his head against his knee and whined. He patted the 
dog's head, and I see the water come in his eyes and 


104 


MAJfCE. 


stand on his cheek. Granny looked at him as if she was 
sorry, hnt by and by she said to him, scornful-like : 

‘‘ ‘ I see who you are thinking of. Ain’t you done 
grieving about her yet ? It’s high time, considerin’ she’s 
been your ruin — brought you to a rope’s end once, and 
likely’ll he the cause of your being brought there ag’in, 
and to your grave this time; for I’ll tell you, they’ve 
started up a fresh hunt after you lately, from some 
signs I’ve seen. They found out you was only half 
hung that time, and they’re kinder anxious to finish 
the job.’ 

‘‘ lie looked up tired-like and said : 

‘ Let them do it, then. I’m not going away. I’m 
tired of wandering and dodging about. I haven’t much 
life left, and I’m come back here to die and be buried — 
by her!* 

He staid there in granny’s house for some weeks, 
and kept out of sight of everybody. I took to him 
mightily, and he took to me. You see we was both two 
critters that nobody cared about, and that found the 
world kind o’ lonesome. I had fever-cake them days, 
and couldn’t do much but set about ; and he tried to 
show me how to make fish-nets and baskets, and how to 
stuff birds; and he learned me my letters. But granny 
kept him worried. Every now and then she would have 
a fling at some folks he cared a heap about. They were 
dead, too, I believe ; but anyhow, he cared for them all 
the same, and it hurt him to hear her talk rough about 
them. She was after him, too, to tell something; he 
wouldn’t tell, nohow. From what I could make out, it 
was to tell who it was he saw kill some man or other. 
He always fell into one of his silent sort o’ ways when 


MAJ^CH. 


105 


she talked about that, and never opened his lips to an- 
swer her. 

“ Well, after a while, we found out they was hunting 
round the house to catch him ; and Gabe and granny was 
afeared he would be found, and begged him to go away. 
He didn’t seem to want to go at first ; but one darkish 
night he got worried and wild-like, and he just went ofi 
without sayin’ a word to anybody. And I follows him. 
We goes up Black Bayou for a mile or so, and it begins 
to rain, and I gets him to take shelter in a little old cabin 
in the swamp, the other side of the bayou. An old, old 
nigger — a hundred years old, I reckon — used to live there 
once, and got bis living by selling fish ; but one day they 
found him dead, sitting against a tree on the bank of the 
bayou with his fishing-rod in his hand ; and since then 
nobody has lived there, until me and Ishrnael pulled up 
there that rainy night. The old cabin was hid away in a 
clump of trees, and we had to lift up the long moss to get 
at it. I tell you it looked scary, and I thought of the old 
nigger and of all the ghost tales I ever heard Harriet tell. 
But we kindled a fire, and I roasted a couple of taters I 
had in my pocket, and spread out Ishmael’s blanket he 
had brought round him, and we laid down and slept till 
morning. Then Ishrnael said he should stay there, for he 
had no money and no heart to go any farther ; and so he 
lives there by himself, and catches fish and makes baskets, 
and I sells ’em for him. I go to see him pretty often, 
but I don’t go straight from our house, for fear of put- 
ting the spies on his track ; I takes my rod and line and 
fishes along up the bayou, or I goes rabbit-hunting with 
Chowder, and takes a roundabout course before I get to 
Ishmael’s hut. Hobody don’t suspect a little chap like 


106 




me, always runnin’ here and there like a squirrel and gO“ 
in’ on errands for anybody that offers me a nickeh And 
I don’t think they’re suspicious of Ishmael, neither. No- 
body knows about him hardly, and the few that do think 
he’s some poor crippled follow that’s taken the old nig- 
ger’s place in the fish-business. Do you think they’ll be 
apt to find him out and go for him ? ” 

“ I trust not — I can not tell,” Melicent said, with a 
huskiness in her voice. 

She had listened with a swelling heart to the boy’s 
simple recital. The emotions of pity and sympathy it 
stirred were mixed with self-reproach and a kind of re- 
morseful tenderness. It seemed as if she were in some 
way responsible for the fate of this man, with whose life 
her own had once been so closely associated. Her heart 
ached yearningly over the picture that Manch had drawn 
of him — desolate, friendless, broken in health, with no 
comforts about him, and nothing consoling in his life save 
the attachment of one small being as friendless as him- 
self. 

“ Well, if they go for him,” said Manch, I’ll do the 
best I can to back him. I’ve cleaned out old Kusty 
Crusty (that’s my pistol, you know), and I’ll go one shot 
on ’em, for I know they’ve no right to bother Ishmael ; 
he never done harm to a living soul — he won’t so much 
as hurt a dog.” 

Melicent reflected anxiously a moment ; at length she 
said : 

“ I think it would be better for him to go away ; 
some slight accident might give his enemies a clew to him. 
They are beginning to be very much in earnest about 
flnding him. Manch, you must get him to go away.” 


^ MAJrCH. 


107 


Mancli shook his head. 

“ I’ll try, but I’m afeard he won’t go. He won’t be- 
lieve he is in any danger ; and, if he does believe it, he 
won’t care enough to try and save himself. He says he 
is tired tramping and dodging about ; he wants to die 
and be buried here. Ho, he won’t mind me ; he’ll just 
put me off and say : ‘ If it comes, let it come, Manch ; 
life’s not so sweet, anyhow, when you get to the dregs. 
Let’s go and hear if Constant’s pipe is in tune to-day.’ 
That’s his mocking-bird, you know.” 

“ But he might listen to his mother — your grand- 
mother, I mean — or to Gabriel.” 

“ Granny don’t go to see him or have anything to do 
with him ; she’s afeared it will make people suspect him. 
And Gabe’s the same, only worse ; for Gabe’s scary on 
his own account. Harriet would do her best, for her 
heart’s all right if her head ain’t, and she’d go through 
fire for anybody she cared about, for all she’s skittish as 
a rabbit ; but granny won’t trust her out of her sight. 
It seems that one of the men that’s spying around for 
Ishmael got hold of- her, and flattered and dazed her so 
she told something she’d no business to. Granny got to 
questioning her pretty sharp, and she made a clean breast 
of it ; and now granny keeps a close watch upon her.” 

Melicent, absorbed and troubled, said again : 

I know he ought to go away. He should be pre- 
vailed upon to go.” 

The boy looked at her from under his curled eyelash- 
es, and seemed to weigh some question in his mind. 

“ If you could talk to him, now — ” he began, and then 
stopped and looked again at Melicent. 

Melicent’s heart gave a throb. This suggestion had 


108 


MAJfCH. 


lurked in some corner of her mind all the time as a vague, 
unformed wish. She repelled it, however, hut not de- 
cisively. 

“ That would not do,” she said doubtfully. 

‘‘ Are you afraid it would set ’em on his track ? Do 
they mistrust about you — I mean about your friend’s 
knowing Ishmael and wanting to help him ? ” 

“ No ; I told you it was a secret nobody knows but 
ourselves, and it must not be told, not even to Ishmael. 
I don’t think my seeing Ishmael would look suspicious, 
even if it were found out.” 

“ Oh ! bless you, we could manage it. You go to 
ride, and take it roundabout like I do. It’s only a mile 
or so up the bayou from where you saw me yesterday. 
You could easy find it by following the bayou. There’s 
a path runs along it on the other side, and this season 
you can cross it anywhere. You might stop and pretend 
to Ishmael as if you wanted to see his birds, or to buy a 
basket, or to bargain for a trout for dinner.” 

“ You are fertile in suggestions, Manch,” Melicent 
said, with a short, nervous laugh, and red spots coming 
and going on her cheeks. The thought of seeing and 
helping this poor recluse, whom she now knew to be 
Neil, set her pulses beating at a fever-rate. She heard 
steps coming up the stairs. Manch had got up to go, and 
was replacing the stereoscope and pictures. 

“ Keep them,” she said. Take them to Ishmael ; 
they may amuse him. And, Manch,” she whispered, 
bending down hurriedly, with her arm around him, and 
laying her cheek to his, ‘‘ look for me to-morrovr morn- 
ing.” 

“ All right,” he returned, his face blushing and lighted. 


MAKCH. 


109 


“ I’ll manage to make you find us. Just ride on up the 
bayou, and you’ll hear something besides the swamp 
frogs.” 


CHAPTER YI. 

Are you going to ride this morning ? ” asked Meli- 
cent of her husband as he came into the room, with his 
riding-boots on and his spur in his hand. 

“ Only as far as the mill,” he answered, but without 
warmth in his tones, and without offering to approach 
where she stood at an open window. 

May I go with you ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish ; but I must tell you that I 
shall be detained at the mill some time, inspecting the 
working of some new machinery I have just had put up. 
You will find it tiresome waiting.” 

“ If I do, I’ll cut the company of you and your ma- 
chinery and come home alone,” Melicent said playfully, 
longing to see the cloud pass from her husband’s eyes. 

At the same time she could not help thinking how 
this arrangement favored her secret resolve to visit Ish- 
mael at his cabin. If her movements were really ob- 
served with suspicion by Colonel Archer, her riding this 
momiiig up the river, instead of down, and furthermore 
accompanied by her husband, would put his suspicions at 
fault — dispel them, perhaps, before they could take defi- 
nite shape. On returning, she trusted to be able to get 
out of town by a back way unperceived, and to find Black 
Bayou and the fisherman’s hut described by Manch. She 
retired to change her dress, with feelings divided between 


110 




distress at her husband’s unaccustomed coldness and ex- 
citement at the thought of the interview that awaited her. 

‘‘ I must dress as unlike the Milly he used to know as 
possible,” she thought, winding her hair into coils about 
her stately head. 

She was on the point of putting on a blue habit, 
when a sudden recollection induced her to lay it aside. 
A blue muslin was her best dress in that one bright 
summer that she had been JS'eil’s wife. Blue might pos- 
sess associations for him — might furnish a link that would 
extend into a swift chain of recollection, and lead to her 
being recognized. She put up the blue habit, and sub- 
stituted one of black velvet, fastened to the throat by 
buttons of dull gold. She wore with this a black hat with 
drooping plumes, and as an aigrette a golden hand clasp- 
ing a coral spray. 

“ Why do you look at me so, Aleck ? ” she asked, 
smiling, but rather uneasily, as she stood on the steps 
drawing on her riding-gloves. Her husband had come 
up, and stood waiting on the walk below, regarding her 
with a questioning, half-cynical look. 

“ I was wondering at the dancing brightness there is 
in your eyes — like an ignis fatuus. It is unusual. What 
has kindled it there ? ” 

“ Fever, perhaps,” she answered, dropping her lids ; 
“ I have not been able to sleep refreshingly for several 
nights, and I have a dull, throbbing pain in my temples.” 

His face softened; he looked at her attentively. 

And you did not speak of it to me ? ” he said with 
concern in his voice and repressed tenderness in his look. 
“ Perhaps you had better not ride. It may fatigue you.” 

“ Ho ; it will do me good. I feel as if I needed rapid 


MAJ^CH. Ill 

motion,” she returned, as she seated herself in the saddle 
and took the reins from his hand. 

Their ride carried them through the upper part of 
the town — through a suburb irregularly built, and com- 
posed for the most part of “ shanties ” and hastily con- 
structed houses in the “American railroad ” style of archi- 
tecture. On the back porch of one of these buildings 
stood two persons whose appearance riveted Melicent’s 
attention. They were a man and woman. The man 
caught Melicent’s eye from the fact that, though he stood 
with his back toward her, leaning against a post, his dress, 
his attitude of insolent ease, and his tall figure, reminded 
her of Colonel Archer. The woman was young and 
handsome — a dark, bold-eyed beauty, round-throated and 
full-lipped, with a quantity of shining black hair tucked 
carelessly under a black-and-red net, and a slender figure, 
graceful even in the soiled pink wrapper which she wore, 
bound round the waist with a cord, the tassel of which 
she twisted absently as she listened to what her companion 
was saying. Her face, lifted to his, had an expression of 
earnest, business-like attention, while yet a smile of ma- 
licious mischief lurked about her mouth. 

Melicent’s quick eye had just photographed this ex- 
pression, when the girl tossed her little head — a toss that 
sent a portion of her rich hair tumbling out of the net — 
and exclaimed : 

“ Two days ! Why, I can do it in two hours, if it 
can be done at all. Hearts are not heads, and quick 
work is the motto in affairs of this kind.” 

“ The quicker the better,” was the reply of the man. 
“ But mind you — ” 

He stopped, checked by a low exclamation from the 


112 


MAJ^CH. 


girl, and turned his head quickly toward the street. He 
averted it even more hastily, hut not before Jdelicent had 
assured herself that it was really Colonel Archer. Evi- 
dently he did not wish to be recognized, and Melicent 
gave no sign of having done so. Mr. Avery had noticed 
nothing particular in the scene on the back porch. He 
had given it a casual glance, and then turned his head to 
bow to an acquaintance on the opposite side of the street. 

“Who lives there — do you know?” Melicent asked 
of him when they had gone a few steps farther. 

“ Ho ; they are new-comers, I think — French people, 
I should say, or of French extraction. You see the pair 
of poodles on the steps and that hideous parrot in the 
window ? ” 

“ And that old woman in the short gown and man’s 
hat, who is scrubbing dirty linen in the back yard, is 
singing a French ditty,” added Melicent, thinking at the 
same time that the girl had also spoken with a French 
accent, and wondering much what her words meant, and 
what Colonel Archer could be doing there engaged in 
such earnest conversation with her. 

On arriving at the mill, Mr. Avery said, as he assisted 
Melicent to dismount : 

“ You can sit in the office and rest while I look at 
the machinery.” 

“ I had rather go with you, if you will let me,” she 
answered. “ I am not tired in the least.” 

Throwing her long riding-skirt over her arm, she 
went into the mill. It was not the first time she had 
been there. She had a feeling of sympathy — ot fellow- 
ship, perhaps — with all working people, and liked to be 
where they were busy at their labors; liked to speak 


MAJVCH. 


113 


friendly words to them, and show the interest she felt 
in their pursuits and their welfare. She greeted them 
pleasantly now as she passed — the carters in the yard, the 
errand-boys, and the workmen in the mill, in their white 
blouses, with their bare, muscular arms, their hair and 
faces all powdered with flour. They turned to look after 
her with hearty admiration, and such a brightening of 
the eyes as happens when a brilliant sun-burst takes the 
place of cloudy and dismal weather. 

They went down to the engine-room, and there Mr. 
Avery entered into a discussion with the grimy-faced 
individual who presided, concerning the new principle of 
action on which the engines were working, and learned 
from him that there was something wrong — “a hitch 
somewhere that made a drawback every now and then, 
though he couldn’t be sure where the fault lay.” 

Mr. Avery went to work examining and questioning 
with zest, and Melicent, left to herself, walked about 
aimlessly, and thought of the cabin on Black Bayou, and 
was sure that Manch was waiting for her and remember- 
ing the promise implied in her parting words of Look 
for me to-morrow.” She walked about absently, and did 
not notice that several times she approached nearer than 
she should to a large wheel that was rapidly revolving 
with a great buzz and whir, and turning, by means of 
its straps and bands, other smaller wheels in the depart- 
ment above. Suddenly she felt a violent jerk from be- 
hind, and at the same instant saw herself in what seemed 
a fatal proximity to the wheel. She turned faint and 
dizzy, and would have staggered and been caught by 
those whirling arms into an embrace of death, had not 
other arms interposed to rescue her from the frightful 


114 


MAJfCH, 


peril. Quick as thought her husband sprang forward 
and snatched her from the danger. Supporting her in 
his arms, he bent over her with a face as white as her 
own. 

‘‘Melicent, my love — ^my darling!” he uttered, his 
coldness and distrust vanishing in the rush of anxious 
tenderness. 

She opened her eyes and smiled reassuringly. 

“ I am not hurt, Aleck — only frightened,” she as- 
serted, standing upon her feet, but still clinging to him 
as much in tenderness as in weakness. “ I am not hurt 
— thanks to you, Aleck,” she* repeated, unwinding his 
arm from around her and putting his hand to her lips, 
with a look into his eyes of tender, almost humble grati- 
tude ; for the thought that she was wronging his love by 
her concealment was supreme in her mind at this mo- 
ment of her preservation. 

She had no time to say more, for at this instant the 
engineer rushed in with a glass of water, and the burly 
head clerk came panting up with a black bottle labeled 
“ Spirits,” followed by several of his younger assistants, 
one of them having snatched up in his hurry a jar of per- 
fumed hair-oil belonging to the dandy of the establish- 
ment. Melicent was able to smile as she thanked them 
(though with rather a pale face), assuring them that she 
was quite recovered. She shuddered, however, when the 
engineer put into her hand some torn scarlet strips, say- 
ing that it was the remains of her scarf, which had caught 
in the wheel and been jerked from her shoulders. 

Mr. Avery himself was paler and more agitated than 
Melicent. 

“We will go home at once,” he said, and drawing 


MAJfCH, 


115 


lier arm througK his he took her out of the mill. As they 
were preparing to mount their horses, the engineer came 
up and said : 

“ See here, Mr. Avery, how about that new machinery ? 
I don’t like to try it as it is without your being here to 
watch how it works.” 

‘‘ I’ll come to-morrow, Watson ; I have an engagement 
for the afternoon,” the mayor replied. 

Melicent suddenly remembered her own engagement 
for this morning. Should she lose her chance of seeing 
and warning ‘‘ Ishmael ” ? Manch would be waiting to 
show her the way. This opportunity might be of the ut- 
most importance. If she waited till another time her go- 
ing might be too late. She turned to her husband. 

“ Don’t let me take you away from your business, 
Aleck ; I can ride home alone.” 

“ -N’o, no ! I shall attend you, of course. I can come 
here to-morrow.” 

“ But perhaps you had better remain. I am sure — ” 

She stopped, for he looked into her face so sharply as 
to disconcert her. He had read its expression, and inter- 
preted it to mean reluctance to have him accompany her. 

“ Since you wish it, you can go alone,” he said, with 
a cold flash of the blue eye that had grown so soft a mo- 
ment ago. 

He helped her to her saddle in silence. As she took 
the riding-whip from his hand, she bent down and said 
gently: 

“You are not offended, Aleck? Indeed, I did not 
mean — ” 

He inclined his head courteously and drew back from 
her side. 


116 


MAJ^CE. 


“ It is of no importance,” he said. “ Be sure to take 
the lower road ; the upper one goes too near the river 
and is dangerous.” 

He walked hack to the mill, and she rode away with 
a burdened heart. 

“ Luck’s dead against me, as Manch would say,” she 
thought. “ I would not go alone from home this morn- 
ing for fear Colonel Archer would want to accompany 
me, or at least would watch and find out where I went. 
I trusted to some fortunate chance to furnish me a pre- 
text to Aleck for prolonging my ride alone as we returned ; 
but, after that unlucky adventure of the wheel, I knew he 
would be sure to insist upon my going straight home with 
him. I’ve done a worse thing after all — wounded my 
husband’s feelings and increased that shadow of distrust 
that has fallen over his love for me. Alas ! I feel I am 
fated to lose his confidence and destroy his affection ! ” 

She pressed her lids together to keep back the tears 
that burned under them. In spite of her efforts, a few 
drops fell upon her cheeks and were kissed off by the 
wind as she rode rapidly on. 

But Melicent’s nature was too elastic for any brood- 
ing despondency. Her natural hopefulness soon asserted 
its rule. Her spirits rose as she rod.e on under the soft, 
hazy sky, noting with her usual ready sympathy the dif- 
ferent phases of human life she encountered, and hearing 
the birds sing in the trees of the cottage yards. 

She had meant to avoid passing the house where she 
had seen Colonel Archer that morning, fearing he might 
still be there and might observe the direction she took — 
perhaps, follow her ; but before she was aware of it, she 
was close to the cottage, and saw in the yard just before 


MAJ^CH. 


117 


her the dark, hold-looking girl standing near the low pal- 
ing and talking to a man on the outside. She was differ- 
ently dressed now, wearing a coquettish scarlet jacket, 
with a red rose in her hair, and her round arms and small 
hands showing to advantage as they were clasped over 
the silken-haired dog she was holding and fondling as she 
talked. The man upon the outside, leaning his elbows 
on the low fence, was so absorbed in looking at and lis- 
tening to her that he did not see Melicent until she was 
within a few feet of him. Then he turned round and 
stared at her a moment with that puzzled, wondering 
look with which he had regarded her before — for the man 
was Gabriel Griffin. Melicent’s appearance stirred some 
faint memory that seemed vaguely to trouble him, while 
she was disturbed at the encounter. She knew from 
Colonel Archer’s report that Gabriel Griffin was as much 
as ever one of the pariahs of society — shunning and hat- 
ing it as it shunned and hated him. What was he doing 
here, having a familiar, lover-like interview with a woman 
whom an hour or two ago she had seen engaged in deep 
and what seemed secret conference with Colonel Archer ? 
Was it merely a coincidence, or did it bear some relation 
to the plot Colonel Archer assured her he had formed for 
detecting ITeil ? 

“ I must let him tell me what this plot is,” Melicent 
said to herself ; “ I see no other way to forestall him,” 


118 


MAJ^CH. 


CHAPTER YII. 

Drawing her veil about her face, and avoiding the 
principal streets which ran parallel with the river, Meli- 
cent took her way through the hack part of the town, 
and, riding rapidly, soon came out of it on the lower side. 
It was built mainly upon the point made by that curve of 
the river known as “ Bear’s Bend.” The little settlement 
of that name had been located lower down, and more 
within the bend. Passing the few dilapidated cabins 
that now marked the site of this earlier settlement, Meli- 
cent at length came to the bayou she was in search of, 
and found the road Manch had described as following its 
course until within a short distance of Ishmael’s cottage. 
She kept the road for nearly a mile, riding at a moderate 
pace, looking about her and listening attentively. A man 
driving an ox-wagon with vociferous threats and deafen- 
ing appeals to his cattle; an old woman riding in to 
market, with a dressed pig strapped behind her, and a 
lap full of noisy chickens ; a couple of boys with a pack 
of dogs at their heels, carrying guns half as long as them- 
selves, and a poor little cat-bird or two by way of game 
— these were all Melicent saw upon the road. She was 
beginning to look and listen a little anxiously for Manch, 
when a sound that had once been familiar caught her ear 
— the bugle-like note produced by blowing upon a rustic 
instrument made of reeds. It proceeded from the belt of 
woods bordering the bavou, and Melicent at once turned 
into it. It was a strip of hummock such as only Western 
streams can show: huge trunks of ash, sycamore, and 
cottonwood, with enormous wild vines running up their 


MAKCR. 


119 


sides, and masses of long gray moss floating from their 
limbs and moving slowly in the wind. Keaching the 
bayou, Melicent rode along the steep bank in the direc- 
tion of the bugle-note. Suddenly it ceased, and soon 
after the clear, cheery chirp of a frog came up as if from 
the water. At the same time a bunch of wild grapes 
tumbled into Melicent’s lap. Looking around, she espied 
the brown little face and the keen eyes of Manch peer- 
ing from the foliage of a limb that overhung the water. 
He drew in his flshing-line, and, running along the limb 
like a squirrel, was soon at her horse’s side. 

‘‘ Don’t I make a pretty good frog ? ” he asked. 
“And ain’t I a high hand on a home-made flute? I 
blowed myself hoarse and caught a string of perch be- 
sides, waiting for you. If you had broke your promise — ” 

“ You would have known it was out of my power to 
keep it. I am not mistress of circumstances, Manch. 
But here I am ; and now, where is the fisherman’s hut ? ” 

“ This way,” he cried. “We must cross the bayou ; 
it’s not saddle-skirt deep to your horse this time o’ year.” 

“ And how will you cross ? ” 

“ Yonder’s a good enough bridge for me and the 
coons,” he said, pointing to a fallen tree that spanned 
the water. 

When they had crossed, he led the way and Melicent 
followed, controlling her agitation and composing her 
features as best she might. Manch stopped before a 
group of trees so thickly draped with moss that only 
glimpses could be had of the little black hut within. 

“ Here it is,” he said ; “ looks like a squirrel’s nest. 
Listen,” he went on ; “ ain’t that beautiful ? Ishmael’s 
been feedin’ his birds, and now he’s coaxin’ ’em to sing. 


120 


MAJ^CH. 


Did you ever hear any whistlin’ like that ? Beats har- 
monicas and Jews’ -harps all hollow. I’d give everything 
in my bank if I could whistle like that.” 

Melicent remembered JSTeil’s whistling in times past, 
but it had not impressed her as this did now. It was 
wonderful — clear and pure as a bird’s note, but with a 
yearning melancholy in it that no bird’s note ever had. 
Presently the “ coaxin’ ” was successful ; the mocking- 
bird trilled out deliciously, and the whistling ceased. 

“ Come on,” said Manch, parting the drapery of 
moss. Melicent entered the narrow open space in front 
of the cabin. Ishmael was sitting outside upon a bench 
with his bird-cages before him. His face was turned 
from Melicent as he leaned on his elbow and listened to 
his bird, so that she saw at tirst only the remembered 
figure in an old gray jacket with loose outlines. The 
long hair fell upon his neck ; it was darker and longer 
than of old, and it was slightly mixed with gray, but had 
still its wavy abundance. 

Ishmael,” said Manch, ‘‘ here’s the lady who give us 
the pictures and that bought my birds.” 

He looked around suddenly with that startled, deer- 
like glance— intensified now into the look of a trapped 
animal that sees the hunter approaching. The expression 
was momentary ; as it passed, he rose and bowed to Meli- 
cent with the simple, childlike grace that had always 
been his. 

“ She has come to see your birds. She will get down 
and hear Constant sing,” said Manch. 

He came up to her and offered his hand to assist her 
in dismounting. Melicent almost feared to take it, her 
own was trembling so. She could not believe but he 


MAJ^CH. 


121 


must recognize her. She would liave known him any- 
where, though he was changed. She wondered why 
others did not recognize him in spite of the heard that 
partially concealed his features, that had been beardless 
as a boy’s when she saw him last. She did not remem- 
ber at the time that even without this disguise it was 
not likely he would be recognized by those who believed 
him dead, and in whose minds his image and even the 
memory of his existence had been dimmed by the lapse 
of time and the influx of newer images and incidents. 

Yes, he was changed ; there were alterations in the 
face she remembered so well; but every change had 
seemed to deepen its pathetic character. The lines traced 
in the forehead, the sad droop of the lids, the grave wist- 
fulness and childlike candor of his eyes, the thinness and 
paleness of his cheek, the silver streaks in his hair — 
all these she noticed with deep emotion, while her own 
face remained partly shaded by the veil she had not put 
aside. 

She sat down with Manch and Ishmael, and the 
mocking-bird sang to them, and she caressed it with her 
slender, ungloved fingers; and all the while she was 
thinking how she should speak the words she had come to 
say — the warning of danger, the offer of means to get out 
of its reach. 

At last she said, as Constant, perched upon her finger, 
picked at the grapes she held : 

“ They are great company to you. I^o wonder you 
dislike to part with them. You call this one Constant ; 
what is the name of his mate ? ” 

She had not spoken before. At the first word she 
uttered he looked up quickly ; his large eyes fastened 

a 


122 


MAJ^CH, 


themselves upon her face with a troubled, questioning 
gaze, such as she had seen in Gabriel, only more intense, 
and shading off into an expression of profound despon- 
dency. Melicent understood the look. Her face had 
touched the chords of memory, but their echoes had said, 
“The face which hers resembles has long since been 
dust.” He had no suspicion of the truth. She was not 
recognized, and Melicent drew a deep breath : was it al- 
together of relief, or did a feeling of regret mingle with 
it and make it almost a sigh ? 

Ishmael roused himself after a moment’s abstraction, 
and answered the question she had asked. 

“ I call her different pet names,” he said evasively. 

Manch had told her that he called this favorite bird 
“ Milly,” but it seemed he could not speak that name at 
this moinent. 

“You must be lonely here,” said Melicent, feeling 
that she must say something to the point ; for time was 
passing, and she dreaded the thought of her husband 
returning and finding her away after what had occurred 
that morning. “You must be lonely here; this is a 
gloomy spot, and Manch tells me you have traveled and 
seen many beautiful places : would you not rather live at 
some of these ? ” 

“All places are pretty much alike to me,” he an- 
swered. “ The same sun shines on them, the same sky 
hangs over them, and we walk under it with the same 
heart in our bosom. Places don’t alter feelings.” 

“But there are places more profitable to live at — 
w’here you could make more money, I mean.” 

“ I make all I need here ; my wants are few,” he an- 
swered, looking up from the bird he fondled, and smiling 


MAKCH. 


123 


a sweet and patient smile that went to Melicent’s heart. 
She was silent for a moment, hesitating how else to urge 
her desire that he should leave this place. Then she 
bent nearer to him, her face still shaded, and said impres- 
sively : 

But suppose you are in danger here — watched for 
and liable to be taken and — persecuted — would it not be 
better to go away ? ” 

He gave a start of surprise ; his hand involuntarily 
clutched his breast ; his eyes met hers with that look of 
wild trouble and appealing. 

“You know it, then,” he said huskily. “So they 
have found me out.” 

“ Ho. Ho one knows but me. I trust no one ever 
will find out ; but — they are in search of you — they are 
here — at this place. You know this, do you not % ” 

“ They told me there were men hunting me — that 
they were close on my track,” he said, pressing his hand 
to his forehead in a weary, bewildered way. “But I 
could not make it real ; it has been a kind of nightmare 
with me so long — this feeling of being hunted down — it 
seems the danger must be a dream still.” 

“ It is too real,” murmured Melicent, “ and you must 
go away soon, and secretly — for your life’s sake.” • 

“ It’s not worth it. I am tired wandering about like 
a wounded buffalo hunting a safe place to die in. I had 
rather die and be buried here. I don’t want to go away ; 
I want to rest.” 

How wearied he looked as he raised his head, and his 
great, sad eyes roved around an instant, and then dropped 
until their long lashes fell upon his cheek! Melicent 
with difficulty kept back her tears. 


124 


MAKCR, 


“ You give up your hold on life so easily,” she said ; 
“ you should have hope ; you are yet young.” 

“ If you reckon age by years ; but I take it we have 
all our track measured off. I’ve gone over mine ; I’ve 
passed all the milestones — ^love, and happiness, and hope 
even. There’s but one left for me, and that’s one we’ve 
all got to pass. It don’t matter how or when I get to 
that. There’s nobody to care but Manch and my dumb 
family here; they’d miss me a little — wouldn’t you. 
Bunch % ” he said, stroking the sleek head of the little 
ground-squirrel, that had at first slyly peeped out of his 
coat-pocket, then ran up his arm and crouched upon his 
shoulder, eying him with head on one side. 

‘‘ How shall I rouse him ? ” Melicent thought. ‘‘ He is 
sunk in a kind of apathy. He will not realize the danger 
until it is too late.” 

“ I thought to find you more prudent,” she said, after 
a pause. “ I thought I could make you feel the necessity 
of going away ; and if you had not the means, I would 
furnish it.” 

“You?” he said, looking up wonderingly at her; 
“ why should you give anything to me ? ” 

Melicent was glad of the friendly shield of lace tjiat 
half screened her face from the scrutiny of those truth- 
compelling eyes ; but she answered earnestly : 

“ Why should one human being do anything for an- 
other ? Are we not bound to feel for and to help each 
other by our very nature of humanity ? ” Then glancing 
around and seeing that Manch, who had gone off, had not 
returned, she continued : “ The boy Manch interested me 
in your fate. I like him ; he is true-hearted. I found 
out from him, inadvertently, that you were his best 


MAJ^CH. 


125 


friend. I had heard your story — a portion of it at least 
— from andther source; I can not tell you about it 
now.” 

‘‘ You did not hear it all,” he said, slowly shaking his 
head, “ or you wouldn’t interest yourself about me. You 
didn’t hear what a wretch I was — a — a murderer ? ” 

‘‘Yes.” 

“ That I killed an old man for his money ? ” 

“ Yes, I have heard it all, and I believe you inno- 
cent.” 

“You believe me innocent? No, nobody believes 
that unless it’s Manch — ^not my own mother and brother. 
No, that can’t be.” 

“Yes, it is,” said Melicent; “I do not believe you 
guilty — and I have heard it all.” 

He was silent ; his lips moved, but he did not speak 
audibly. A change seemed to pass over him. He lifted 
his head more erectly than he had done before ; a flush 
mounted to his pale cheek ; his eye brightened. It was 
as though hope, and the energy of life that is bom of 
hope, had been suddenly kindled in his breast by the 
knowledge that one being believed in him. He seemed 
about to speak, but before he did so Manch came running 
up and went close to Melicent. 

“Hid you ever see a heron’s egg?” he asked, putting 
one into her hand. As she took it, he said, in a rapid 
whisper : 

“There’s somebody coming down the road— they’ll 
come here, maybe. Go into the house, and I’ll put your 
horse out of sight.” Turning round, he said aloud: 
“Ishmael, show the lady the curious bones and rock things 
you brought from Calif orny.” 


126 


MAJfCH. 


Would she like to look at them ? ” Ishmael said, and 
led the way into the house, Manch remainin'g without. 

They had hardly entered when a man on horseback 
rode up to the door. Welicent trembled with dread, 
while her cheeks burned with indignation, for the voice 
was that of Colonel Archer. He had actually followed 
her there. 

“ Hillo, boy ! ” he cried ; “ has a lady been here ? ” 

“ What’s the row ? ” drawled Manch, leisurely turning 
round from the fishing-line he was fixing. 

“Has a lady on horseback been here, or have you 
caught sight of one passing ? ” 

“ Caught what ? ” 

“ Sight of a lady, I told you.” 

“Dunno about them critters; I’ve caught a lot of 
fish, though. Don’t you want to buy ’em ? — all fresh 
and flopping.” 

“ Damn your impudence ! Who said anything about 
fish ? I asked if a lady came here or passed.” 

“ One might a’ passed,” said Manch reflectively, as he . 
stopped trimming the lead-sinker on his line, and put his 
forefinger on his chin. “ I’ve been fishin’ in the bayou 
down there, and what with the plaguey minnows^ a-keep- 
in’ your cork bobbin’, and the mosketoes playin’ tunes 
under your nose, a body hasn’t much chance to look out 
for ladies.” 

“You are either a fool or you pretend to be one. 
Where’s the man who lives here ? ” 

“ Oh ! he’s some better, thank ’ee. We don’t much 
think it’s the small-pox he’s got, but there’s no tollin’. 
Would you step in and see him? Maybe you’re the 
doctor.” 


MAJVCH. 


127 


The man wheeled his horse and rode off, muttering 
an imprecation. Manch called out after him, “You 
didn’t say whether you’d take the fish ! ” but he made no 
reply. The boy indulged in a quiet little chuckle as soon 
as his questioner was out of hearing. Putting his head 
in at the door, he asked : 

“ How’s your small-pox, Ishmael ? A newsboy read 
me something in a paper that put me up to that dodge. 
How, I’ll go for your horse, lady ; I hid him in the old 
nigger fisherman’s hen-house.” 

“ Who was that man ? ” asked Ishmael. “ Is he one 
of them you said were on my track ? ” 

“Yes, he is the principal one. You may guess how 
bloodthirsty when I tell you that he is the murdered 
man’s son. And you will stay here and put yourself in 
his power ? ” 

“ I have changed my mind,” he said slowly, the light of 
hope that had so suddenly kindled in his eyes still show- 
ing there. “ I’ll try to escape — as some acknowledgment 
of your kindness, if nothing else. I thank you for that 
kindness with all my heart. I’ll not need to take your 
money, I think. These things ” (pointing to the collec- 
tion of fossils, crystals, and curious petrifactions that she 
had been looking at) “ are worth something to scientific 
folks and museum people, so I’ve been told. They’ll, 
maybe, bring some money — enough to get away. I’ll 
get the boy to sell them to-morrow.” 

“ I’ll buy them now,” said Melicent. 

“ To-morrow — I will send them to-morrow,” he inter- 
rupted, as though wishing to make a delay. 

Keluctance to any change seemed to be the ruling 
feeling in his mind. Melicent comprehended the feeling 


128 


MAJfCH. 


— the helpless, unnerved weariness of the man — tired of 
aimless wandering, tired of flying from the nightmare of 
being “hunted down”; broken in health, worse than 
broken in spirits, though not yet thirty years of age ; ask- 
ing nothing of his fellow beings but permission to live 
out the remainder of his life in the society of his dumb 
friends and of the child who had so strangely attached 
himself to his desolate fortunes, and to be buried at last 
near what he supposed to be the grave of the wife he had 
loved so well. 

Melicent felt all this as she looked around the poor 
room and noted all its humble details — a bench, a home- 
made table, a pallet bed, a box for the squirrel in one 
comer, in the other a violin, the work of Ishmael’s own 
hands, and carved and flnished with much ingenuity. 
On the table was a little book in old-fashioned leather 
binding. Melicent took it up, and, struck by a sudden 
memory, turned to the fly-leaf. Her heart beat painful- 
ly ; a dizzy feeling half blinded her, as she read there, 
“ To Neil from Milly^'^ in the irregular, unskilled hand- 
writing that had once been hers. She remembered that 
she had given him this little Testament the first day of 
their marriage, and he had always carried it about him. 
He was learning to read of her, and she recollected how 
proud both teacher and pupil were when he was able to 
read his first chapter in the Testament. When she could 
command herself, she turned to Ishmael. 

“Is not this a telltale she asked gently. “Ought 
you not to tear out the leaf? ” 

He caught up the book passionately. 

“ Hever ! ” he cried ; “ I’ll never tear out that. It’ll 
be buried with me just like it is.” 


MAJ^CH. 


129 


He put it in his bosom and clasped his arms over it ; 
his mouth quivered with emotion. 

Melicent could not have spoken after this. She shook 
hands with him in silence. When she parted with Manch, 
he said to her : 

“ Go back by the road you came. He come that way 
just now ; but he’s gone back by the other road — round 
by granny’s house. He’s thinking to find you.” 

‘‘ He must have seen me come out of town,” Meli- 
cent thought, as she gave free rein to her horse and went 
homeward at a rapid rate. As she was turning into the 
street on which she lived, a horseman turned the opposite 
corner, crossed over and rode up beside her. 

“ My fair runaway,” said Colonel Archer, bending 
lightly in his saddle, “ how did you manage to elude me 
this morning ? ” 

“ Did I make an appointment to ride with you, Colo- 
nel ? ” she asked haughtily. 

exactly ; but when I suggested the disagreeable- 
ness, not to say impropriety, of your riding alone, and 
coming back with headaches, you acquiesced — by your 
eloquent silence, if in no other way.” 

I went out this morning with my husband.” 

‘‘But returned without that useful appendage, and 
rode away at your own sweet will, in altogether another 
direction.” 

“I am grateful for the interest you manifest in 
my movements. You must take great pains to watch 
them.” 

“ A little bird told me of them this time, however ; 
but when I mounted my horse and hastened to overtake 
you, in the fullness of good intentions, you spirited your- 


130 


MAMCm 


self away — vanished, horse and rider, like a lady in a fairy 
tale.” 

“ I have the gift of being invisible when I wish,” said 
Melicent pointedly. 

“ Which means that you desire to be invisible to me ? ” 

Melicent, in her heart, wished she could turn upon 
him and frankly answer “ Yes” ; but how could she with 
poor Ishmael’s face fresh in her mind, and her knowledge 
that his safety might depend on her keeping friendly with 
this man ? She lifted her eyes to Colonel Archer — proud 
eyes, but soft with unshed tears — and made her appeal : 

“ Colonel Archer, I entreat you, as a gentleman, to 
cease such trifling; it wounds my self-respect. I do not 
want to offend you. I would like you to be a friend to 
me in a straightforward, honest way.” She stopped, and 
then added impressively : “ There are things I may do 
that will seem singular — imprudent, perhaps ; things I 
would not do but for the force of circumstances. Don’t 
misinterpret them, please — and don’t presume upon 
them.” 

A purer and less passionate man would have appre- 
ciated this appeal, with its tone of mildness and its under- 
tone of repressed but strong displeasure. It clouded Colo- 
nel Archer’s face one moment with chagrin and disap- 
pointment. But her eyes were so beautiful, flashing 
through soft tearfulness, and his mind was so set upon 
believing its own wishes to be truth, that he consoled him- 
self, and let vanity and cynicism put their interpretation 
on Melicent’s words. ^ 

‘‘ She is trying to keep me at bay,” he thought. “ She 
is afraid of me — afraid of herself as well. She is so firm 
because she is conscious of weakness.” 


MAJH'CH. 


131 


Still her words were not altogether without effect, and 
he was not wholly insincere when he bowed his head and 
murmured : 

“ You shall be obeyed. In turn, you must bear with 
me. I told you what lawless company and a wild life had 
made of me. Smile now, to show that you pardon me.” 

Smile she did, but the smile was short-lived, for at 
that moment they rode up to the gate of the mayor’s 
house, and Melicent saw her husband looking at them 
from the porch. She thought with a pang how he must 
regard her conduct of this morning. Colonel Archer said 
Good-by ” at the gate ; he had lately taken lodgings at 
an hotel in another part of the town, in order to be with 
a friend, he told Mr. Avery. 

• Melicent went in and approached her husband as he 
walked slowly up and down the piazza with an open let- 
ter in his hand. 

“ Have you been long at home, Aleck ? ” she asked. 

“ Hearly an hour,” was the cold reply. 

She determined to speak a word of explanation, not- 
withstanding his discouraging manner. 

“The day was so fine I concluded to prolong my 
ride,” she said. “ I rode down the river and stopped at a 
fisherman’s hut, and bought some crystals and curious 
petrifactions that I think you will like for your cabinet. 
The boy will bring them to-morrow. I rode alone ; I did 
not meet Colonel Archer until just now, at the corner of 
the street.” 

He stopped, and there was a struggle in his mind. He 
wanted to throw off the burden of suspicion, as unworthy 
of himself and her; he chafed under it with proud scorn ; 
but an impalpable something held him back. He did 


132 


MAJ^CH. 


not know what this undefinahle bamer might be ; he was 
only conscious of the restraint it exercised over him. In 
truth, it was his instinctive perception of the shadow of 
secrecy that had risen between Melicent and himself. He 
felt that there was something he did not share — that there 
was an alienation, a want of openness in what she said 
and did. It was this that checked the impulse to put 
his arm around her in the old, tender fashion, and talk to 
her freely and fondly as she shared his favorite prome- 
nade in the latticed gallery. Instead of this, he said : 

‘‘ I think they are about to serve dinner. You will 
barely have time to get ready.” 


CHAPTEK YIII. 

True to his word, Manch found his way to Melicent’s 
room next morning, with the curiosities packed in one of 
IshmaePs neatest baskets. 

“ I bring bad news,” he said, as he put his burden 
down upon the table ; “ IshmaePs sick to-day.” 

“ Sick ! ” exclaimed Melicent, with much concern. 

“Yes; you know it turned to raining yesterday to- 
ward evenin’, and I had to go home in it, or Pd catch it 
from granny. Ishmael would take off his coat and wrap 
me in it, and so he took cold. That’s how it come, I 
reckon. He has pains in his limbs and the cramp in his 
right leg. It’s the same old complaint that takes him 
every now and then ever since it fastened on him that 
time he come nigh freezin’ to death in the mountains — 
trapped up there by the Ingins, you know.” 


MAXCH, 133 

“ I am very sorry,” Melicent said. “ Has he a doctor, 
Manch ? ” 

“ Save us ! no he doctors himself, what doctorin’ he 
gits. He never complains nor says a word ; only turns 
white about the gills when the pain’s on him. He says 
he will be well in a day or two, and he told me to bring 
you these ; he’d promised to send ’em, and to tell you 
to do what you liked with ’em ; they wasn’t worth 
much.” 

Melicent took them out of the basket and ranged them 
on the table before her. There were some beautiful crys- 
tals, a few Indian relics that looked as though they would 
be valuable to an antiquarian, and some petrified curiosi- 
ties and geological specimens, among them two small but 
remarkable pieces of fossil. Manch, with his hands in 
his jacket-pockets, surveyed them as they were arranged 
on the table, and then, letting his eye rove around the 
room, seemed to compare them with the pretty ornaments 
of silver filagree, Bohemian glass, and Sevres china that 
were scattered about over the toilet-stand and the mantel. 

“ They’re a mean-looking lot,” he said at last — “ be- 
neath your notice that has so many prettier things. I 
don’t s’pose they’re worth gnat-heels to you.” 

“ I am not learned enough to know their value. They 
may be worth a great deal more than I can give. W e 
will see what is the best I can do.” 

She took out her purse from a bottom compartment 
of her pearl-inlaid work-box, and emptied its contents on 
the table before her. She counted it carefully, and 
found seventy dollars in gold and two bank-notes of ten 
dollars each. 

“ It is not as much as I thought,” she said regretfully 


134 


MAMCE. 


as she returned the money to the purse and put it into 
Manch’s hands. His big eyes opened wide. 

‘‘You give all this to Ishmael! ” he exclaimed — “all 
this for that rubbish % ” 

“ The rubbish, as you call it, may be worth more for 
aught I can tell. I only buy it for Ishmael’s sake ; he 
would not take the money without some return. I wish 
it was more, but it is all I have ; I trust it may be enough 
to get him away.” 

“ But he can’t go now. He’s not able to move about ; 
and then I think he’s lost heart a’ready by his looks. Your 
talk yesterday helped him up mightily ; but he’s dropped 
back again like a squirrel with a broken leg. I’ve known 
’em to peep out a little way and then lose heart and drop 
back in their hollow and starve and die there.” 

The childlike comparison touched Melicent. Her voice 
trembled as she said : 

“We must try to put heart in him again.” 

“ I tell you what I think,” said Manch, coming close 
to Melicent and speaking earnestly ; “ it’s the thought of 
goin’ out among people and havin’ them stare at him, and 
of mixin’ with the noise and bustle at the depot, that 
scares Ishmael — ^kinder makes him want to draw back in 
his gray old hole among the moss and trees. You see, 
people ain’t been overly good to him. They’ve crippled 
his life, as you may say, so he dreads ’em as the wounded 
squirrel does the hawks and varmints.” 

“ He need not mix with the people on the cars,” said 
Melicent. “ He might get a horse and ride away in what 
direction he pleased.” 

“ That’s the very idee ! ” cried the boy. “ Ishmael 
would like that better’n anything. I know where I can 




135 


buy him a pony for fifty dollars, and that’d leave enough 
of the money to get him to some safe place, where he 
might settle down and feel like he was at home.” 

He stopped abruptly, and his eager face clouded. 

“ Oh, poor Ishmael ! ” he burst out. “ How can he 
ever feel at home anywhere ? He’ll be always bearin’ 
the hounds after him, and what’ll he do for somebody to 
care for him and make him laugh sometimes, like me and 
Constant and Bunch ? Oh, poor Ishmael ! he’ll pine to 
death. He says right — there’s no rest for him this side 
the grave.” 

His little chest heaved, and the tears ran over his 
cheeks in spite 6f himself. Melicent drew his head to 
her knee and wept with him — tears of sympathy that 
were somehow mixed with the bitterer drops of remorse- 
ful tenderness. She wiped them away after a little while, 
and said gently, as she stroked the boy’s head : 

This is helping Ishmael, is it ? ” 

“ No,” said Manch, rising ; “ I must go back and tell 
him about the horse we are to get, and pack his old wal- 
let for him. But, then, I’m afeared he won’t be able to 
stand the travel yet awhile.” 

“ If he could only get away from where he is ! Don’t 
you know of any out-of-the-way place, Manch, where he 
might be better hid, and still be tolerably comfortable, 
until he is well enough to ride ? ” 

Manch thought a moment. 

“ There’s one place,” he said, “ where nobody ever 
goes. The boldest and mischievest boys dassent climb 
into it ; and the rats, the bats, and the ghostesses has it 
all to theirselves. That’s the old haunted block-house at 
the cross-roads, up the river a piece, where there’s been 


136 


MAJSrCR, 


murders, and hangings, and killin’ by Ingin tomahawks, 
and all kind of bloody doin’s. If Ishmael could git into 
that old den, they’d hardly look for him there.” 

Melicent shuddered involuntarily. It was near that 
house that the murder was committed of which he was 
accused ; it was there she had seen him hanging — ^gasp- 
ing, struggling in death ; it was there that people pointed 
out his grave — there, on that fatal hill. Would he meet 
his death there at last — tracked by the hounds of the law, 
sick and unable to escape? Would he be caught like a 
rat in a tiap in that dreary, half -rotten old building — the 
haunted block-house ? 

‘‘You don’t think it a good hiding-place?” asked 
Manch, noticing the expression on Melicent’s face. 

“ Yes, I do,” she answered ; “ it was not that made 
me hesitate. How shall we get him there ? He could 
manage to ride as far as the block-house ; it’s not more 
than two miles from the river, is it ? ” 

“ Hot so far, I don’t think.” 

“ But you ought to have some one to help you.” 

“ I can get Gabriel, maybe ; but — ” 

“Ho, don’t apply to Gabriel — don’t give him any 
hint of what you are about,” said Melicent, remembering 
what she had seen at the cottage of the Frenchwoman. 

“ All right ; I was goin’ to say Gabriel’s curus of late; 
He’s had a failin’ out with granny and quit cornin’ to our 
house. He wanted her to give him a five-dollar gold 
piece that she’s saving, she says, for a nest-egg ; and he 
got mad as blazes when she wouldn’t, and said he’d 
soon have gold a-plenty and be able to say good-by to 
these diggin’s. Ho, I can manage to help Ishmael up.” 

“ Can you go to-night ? ” 


MAJ^CH, 


137 


“ If Isliinael ain’t too bad off.” 

“You can get my horse. Come for it late — about 
twilight. I will tell my husband I lent it to you to move 
a sick man. And you will have to take provisions with 
you, Manch.” 

“ ni have to go there first and fix some contrivance 
to get up into the block-house. It’s pretty high up off 
the ground, you know, and no sign of steps. I’ll make a 
ladder ; take a hatchet and a pocket full of nails along, 
and cut two poles and tack pieces across. I’ll do that to- 
day, and I’ll come for the horse to-night if Ishmael’s 
well enough to go. If not. I’ll come to-morrow and let 
you know. I’ll go now; I reckon Ishmael’s wanted a 
gourd of fresh water from the spring before this.” 

“ Stop a moment ; here is something to put in your 
empty basket.” 

Melicent took off a napkin from a waiter that stood 
on the table and displayed its tempting contents. 

“I had no appetite for breakfast this morning, and 
my old cook sent up an early lunch, thinking to tempt 
me with dainties. I thought of your coming, and let it 
stay; but I know you had rather take it to your sick 
friend than eat it yourself.” 

“ Oh ! a heap rather ! ” said the boy, watching her 
with pleased eyes as she transferred the broiled chicken, 
the amber jelly, the slices of sponge-cake, and the deli- 
cate rolls from the waiter into his basket. 

“ There,” she said ; “ you will not have to cook din- 
ner for Ishmael to-day. When you come to-morrow, I 
will have a basketful ready for you to take to the block- 
house. I will sit down right away and think over what 
necessary things I can put up in small parcels.” 


138 


MAJVCS. 


But this she was not permitted to do ; for as Manch 
finished putting back the grape-leaves over the top of the 
basket, Flora entered with the cards of some visitors, 
strangers to her, hut friends of her husband. 

“ Mighty fine-dressed folks,” commented the girl ; 
“ and come in a carriage most as fine as de mayor’s. — Come 
along with you, little hoy; lem me show you out de 
back way,” she continued, looking scornfully at Manch, 
and wondering at her lady’s penchant for ragged ur- 
chins. 

The day was drawing to a close, the guests had taken 
their departure, and Melicent sat alone in the drawing- 
room in the shadow of the deepening twilight. She had 
been walking the gallery with restless steps, anxiously 
impatient for the appearance of Manch. But he did not 
come ; and, with an effort at self-control, she sat down to 
the piano, and, musingly touching the keys, recalled the 
air she had heard Ishmael whistle. It seemed a familiar 
one. She felt she must have known it in that other life 
when she was mistress of a cabin home and sang at her 
work as happy as a soulless bird. She was wandering in 
that bewildering past when, lifting her eyes by some sud- 
den impulse, she saw in the dim light a tall figure beside 
her. That brought her back to the present with a dis- 
agreeable shock. 

“ Colonel Archer,” she said coldly, as she rose and 
stood before him, I was not aware of your presence ; I 
did not hear you announced.” 

“I beg pardon,” he said, bowing witli his mocking 
grace; ‘‘I announce myself— in this instance. I could 
hot make myself heard at your hall-door. Do not let me 
intermpt you ; finish your song.” 




139 


‘'Is it a song?” asked Melicent, curious to know. 
“ I do not remember the words. I heard it somewhere, 
and it impressed me singularly.” 

“ If it impressed you, it must have been in some pre- 
vious stage of existence, before your heart had petrified 
into marble as it now has, for the song is a mournful little 
love ballad, old as the hills.” 

He leaned over as he stood, struck the chords of the 
piano with his firm, well-shaped hand, and sang : 

“ Oh ! take me to your arms, my love, 

For keen the wind doth blow ; 

Oh ! take me to your arms, love, 

For hitter is my woe.” 

Instantly Melicent remembered the whole ballad — re- 
membered Neil and herself singing it when they sat in 
their doorway at sunset, or when they rested in the 
woods. The rush of recollection confused her. She 
turned cold and pale. 

“ It is late,” she said ; “ I will ring for lights.” 

“No; I beg you will not spoil this soft twilight. 
Here,” he said, sweeping back the curtain, “ come and 
see how light it is still, and what a delicate purple radi- 
ance is refiected from that host of amethyst clouds that 
a while ago were so gorgeous with gold and crimson. 
What a grand sunset it was ! — suggestive of St. John’s 
apocalyptic vision of the New Jerusalem. It quite sol- 
emnized me.” 

“ You ? ” queried Melicent, incredulously. 

“ Certainly. Don’t fancy me altogether a pagan or a 
boor. I read a little in the Bible as well as everything 
else.” 


140 


MAJTCH. 


“But you skipped the sentence, ‘ Vengeance is mine 
— I will repay, saith the Lord,’ ” replied Melicent softly. 

“1 understand you; but I think that sentence, like 
the one telling us ‘ The Lord will provide,’ is to be taken 
provisionally, at least. For instance, when you have 
w^aited eight years for the Lord to repay with vengeance, 
and he has not done it, the interest rolls up considerably, 
and you had better take matters into your own hand, and 
settle the score at once.” 

“ Is there a prospect of your settling the score at 
once ? ” asked Melicent, playing with the tassel of the 
curtain. 

“ I — think — so,” he said slowly, nodding his head and 
watching her. 

“ Any new developments ? ” inquired Melicent, with 
assumed carelessness ; but her color came and went, and 
she leaned against the window-frame and bent her beauti- 
ful head and neck a little forward in her eagerness. 

She made a lovely picture in that tinted light. Colo- 
nel Archer thought so, and he bent nearer her and looked 
at her with bold admiration. 

“I am a little afraid to tell you,” he said ; “ you 
might play traitress.” 

You distrust me?” returned Melicent, coloring with 
a sense of duplicity. 

“ Women are unaccountable creatures ; and yon espe- 
cially are an enigma, as I told you once — an enigma that, 
by the way, I swore to solve. What is one to think, for 
instance, of a suddenly developed proclivity for the so- 
ciety of old hags, and half-witted girls, and ragged boys ? 
And when we consider that this fancy is taken up by a 
high-bred beauty whose face might belong to a princess ? 


MAJfCH. 


14:1 


And the face can set itself hard enough against some 
people — your humble slave, for instance, l^o ; I am 
afraid your heart is not with me in my detective scheme.” 

“ Indeed, I am deeply interested in it, and you will 
remember you promised to keep me informed of any new 
phases of it or any further discoveries.” 

“ I have not forgotten. Indeed, there have been no 
further discoveries. We have been disappointed and 
baffled, but I do not despair. Just now I have a new 
clew — a slender thread, but it may lead to the truth. It 
is but a sentence, in fact — mysterious as the Delphic 
oracles.” 

Let me have it ; I am good at interpreting. Say, 
was your oracle delivered with a French accent from a 
shrine where a parrot and a poodle were the ‘ familiars,’ 
instead of the owl and the raven, or the black cat of an- 
cient witchcraft ? ” 

He gave her one of his keen glances. 

‘‘ Why do you ask that ? ” he queried sharply. You 
know, then. How the devil did you find out ? That is 
mysterious again.” 

“ I hate mysteries,” said Melicent. “ I have not found 
out anything. I recognized you yesterday when I rode 
by. You were talking to a dark little lady in a pink 
wrapper.” 

‘‘Mademoiselle Maline, the pretty French fortune- 
teller, astrologist, spiritualist — Heaven only knows what 
besides ! — humbuggist, most likely. I remember I was 
talking to her as you passed.” 

“ Yes, I heard — ” 

“ Heard ! ” he exclaimed quickly, as Melicent paused ; 
“ what did you hear ? ” 


142 


MAKCH. 


“ Oh ! nothing ; a fragment of conversation without 
connection. What information did she give you about 
the murderer ? ” 

“ I did not say she gave me any.” 

“ Pardon me ; you did not. I merely meant to ask 
what was that enigmatical clew you spoke of just now.” 

“ It was simply this — that the truth I wanted to know 
lay no deeper than a fish-basket.” 

That is mysterious indeed,” returned Melicent, well 
concealing her alarm ; “ mysterious and unmeaning.” 

“ Hot altogether unmeaning ; and I am promised an 
interpretation to-morrow, or the next day at latest. Let 
me tell you how it came to be spoken — or rather,” he 
corrected himself, hesitating and speaking more cautious- 
ly, “ let me give you a skeleton sketch of the way it came 
up. I won’t give you the details at present ; I will wait 
to see how the plot works. Getting at even that bit of 
clew was the result of magic — sorcery of the old, old sort 
that Delilah and Cleopatra understood — the magic of 
bright eyes and sweet, deceitful lips. When champagne 
and witching smiles had wrought the preliminary charms, 
my sorceress recounts her accomplishments, and mentions 
among them the art of finding out lost or buried trea- 
sures — under certain circumstances. She has been told 
that there is a great treasure hid hereabout — ^robbed from 
a murdered miner years ago. She has reason to hnow 
that it was buried or hid near the place of the murder, 
and that the murderer forgot to mark the spot and could 
not identify it afterward, or he would have done so in 
order to save his life when it was offered him by the 
hangmen on the condition that he disclosed where the 
money was. Ah! it was a great treasure of gold and 


MAKCH. 


143 


diamonds, and lier art could show where it was hid but 
for one thing.” 

‘‘ And what was that ? ” was eagerly questioned. 

“ ‘ It took truth to bring forth truth,’ says my sorcer- 
ess oracularly. She must know the truth of the whole 
proceeding, else her art is vain. Some say the murderer, 
or the man accused of the murder, was hanged, but not 
till he was dead, and that he still lives. She must know 
the truth about this. If he is still alive, she must know 
where he is, and must have a bit of his hair or a piece of 
his clothing ‘ to set the charm ’ ; if he is dead, a handful 
of dirt from his grave will answer the purpose. Oh ! if 
she only knew and could find the treasure, how happy it 
would make her ! She could then be rich enough to 
marry the man of her choice, and fiy with him to her 
native land across the sea, where hearts are warmer, and 
where malice and prejudice and scandal would not come. 
You see the bait, madame.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Melicent ; “ but nothing yet about the 
fisherman’s basket.” 

Ah ! I am coming to that. When my sorceress lifts 
her black eyes to her — victim, we will say, for want of a 
word— and cries melodramatically, ‘ The truth, the truth ! 
—how shall I find tie truth of the matter % Shall I find 
it by looking into your eyes, monsieur ? They are deep 
and dark as wells, and they say truth lies at the bottom 
of a well.’ ^ Perhaps this truth does not lie so deep, was 
the reply. ^ Not so deep ? How deep, then ? ’ ‘ At the 

bottom of a fish-basket,’ was the answer. And then—” 

“ What then ? ” 

“ Why, then there was an unlucky interruption, and 
the spell was broken off for the time. But to-morrow it 


lU 


MAJV'CR. 


shall be renewed, and it is odd if wine and female arts do 
not wile the secret from the bottom of the fish-basket, or 
wherever it is.” 

“ At the bottom of a fish-basket ! ” repeated Melicent 
scornfully. There is not much to be made of that.” 

“ Do you think so ? I will tell you what I make of 
it. I take it to mean that the man JS^eil Griffin is hang- 
ing about here as a fisherman — disguised, perhaps, as a 
negro or an Indian. There are several of that kind liv- 
ing here, selling fish and turtle that they catch in their 
nets and traps. I have an eye of suspicion upon three 
different individuals in and around town. One of them 
may prove the right coon. If I don’t succeed in getting 
that intei'pretation by to-morrow, I shall go promptly to 
work and follow up the clew of the fish-basket.” 

‘‘ And is this really all the clew you have ? ” 

“All. I did not mean to tell you until there was 
something more definite ; but do you not see ? — I can not 
keep anything from you. You have the key of my heart, 
and you unlock it at will.” 

The words were heard by an ear they were not meant 
for. Mr. Avery stood in the doorway and looked darkly 
at the two at the window, whose faces were turned from 
him. As Colonel Archer’s last words fell on his ear, his 
eye flashed and he stepped rapidly into the room. But, 
before he could speak. Colonel Archer turned round and 
nodded with easy friendliness. 

“ Isn’t that so, Avery ? ” he said. “ Isn’t it true that 
these women worm our secrets out of us in spite of our 
better judgment? Here’s your lady has just unlocked 
my breast with the silver key of her tongue and let a 
small secret escape into her keeping, though I am well 


MAJfCH. 


145 


aware you will be the possessor of it before to-morrow, and 
will chaff me unmercifully. So I’ll forestall her story 
and tell you myself what there is to tell. She saw me 
yesterday, as she aud you rode by, consulting the pretty 
French fortune-teller in her cottage on Welcome Street, 
and she insists that I was bidding her 

‘ Make, not mar my fate, 

My fortune was her own ’ ; 

and I have pleaded guilty to the soft impeachment, urg- 
ing in excuse that Mademoiselle Maline is a bewitching 
little Circe. Is she not ? ” 

“I have not observed her,” Mr. Avery said coldly. 
He was not satisfied with the explanation, for Melicent’s 
flushed cheek and clouded eyes did not tally with this 
light account. But he could not openly gainsay it. 
Colonel Archer’s manner was the perfection of careless, 
half-ironical jesting, with which it would seem folly to be 
angry. 


CHAPTER IX. 

When Melicent was alone and could think coherently 
she determined upon two things: First, that Ishmael 
must be removed from where he was. If he was not well 
enough to travel, he must be helped away to some safer 
place. She felt sure that he was one of the three fisher- 
men that Colonel Archer’s “ eye of suspicion ” had singled 
out; and she knew that, if attention was once called to 
him, there were plenty of people living in Alluvia who 
had known him in Bear’s Bend, and would at once recog- 
nize him as Xeil Griffin. The block-house, which Manch 
7 


146 


MAJ^CH. 


had suggested, seemed, upon the whole, the fittest place 
in which to conceal him until he was better. It ^as uni- 
versally shunned, chiefiy from custom, growing out of the 
horrible associations of the place; and it was regarded 
with superstitious terror by the negroes and ignorant peo- 
ple, whose prying propensities were most to be dreaded. 
Another circumstance that helped to make the block-house 
a desirable refuge was the fact that it was difiicult to get 
into, set as it was upon high posts, with the steps that 
had led up to it long since rotted away. Manch had 
promised to construct a rough ladder that he could take 
away when not in use, and hide in the underbrush and 
high weeds that grew under and around the house. 

The other thing that Melicent resolved to do was to 
see Gabriel Grifiin if possible, or to get Manch to tell 
him of the plot of which he was the tool, and warn him 
not to betray his brother. She thought of writing to him 
that night and telling him, but how should she get the 
note to him ? Manch had said that Gabriel was not staying 
at home lately ; and if he were, whom could she trust to 
take such a note ? Ilot one of the servants. They would 
make difiiculties about finding the house of the Griffins, 
especially at night ; and if they agreed to go, she was by 
no means sure that they could be relied upon to deliver 
the note safely. She would have to wait until the mor- 
row, when Manch would certainly come. She trusted 
nothing would be found out before then ; but she was 
full of apprehension, and sadly disappointed that Manch 
had not come that evening. 

‘‘Ishmael must be worse,” she thought, as she sat that 
night in her white dressing-gown, in a low easy-chair, 
gazing absently on her hands that were folded in her lap. 


MAJfCH. 147 

j Flora was combing out her long hair, and, as she gath- 
■ ered the rich mass in both hands, the girl said : 

“ Let me put it up in crimping pins. Miss Melicent, 
for the ball to-morrow night.” 

“ The bah ! ” uttered Melicent, in a tone of annoy- 
ance. “ Is it to-morrow night the ball is to be ? ” 

‘‘ To bo sure, miss ! Is you done forgot ? And your 
dress such a beauty, and the Stanley young ladies a-com- 
in’ in to-morrow to dress here and go along wid you and 
de mayor ? Their colored lady. Rose Martin, is cornin’ 
with ’em. She’ll have to get me to fix their sashes and 
puft' their hair. Rose Martin can’t tie a bow genteel to 
save her, and she don’t know no more about puffin’ hair 
dan you do about hoein’ pertatoes. Miss Melicent. Ev- 
erybody praises the way I dresses your hair ; but, then, 
your hair is so soft and shiny, it looks nice whichever 
style you put it up. You takes de shine off ’em all. Miss 
Melicent, I do declar’ — both in dress and behavior.” 

Flora was disappointed that her fiattery had no effect 
upon its object. Melicent’s clouded brow betrayed anxi- 
ety. The ball was a hindrance she had overlooked. She 
could not decline going to it. It was given by the Brad- 
wells — an influential family, friends of her husband, and 
expected to be a strong stake in the coming election. 
The Stanleys, another important family, were coming in 
from the country to go to the ball, and the young ladies 
had begged the honor of being chaperoned by Mrs. Ave- 
ry, as their mamma was a home fixture, and never went 
beyond the shadow of the house chimneys. Melicent 
was sure they would come early according to country cus- 
tom, and that the day would be taken up in efforts to en- 
tertain them — in small shopping excursions for tlieir ben- 


148 


MdJ^CH. 


efit, in eating and dressing — to the exclusion of graver 
matters tliat might claim her thought or action. 

Next morning, as soon as she was at leisure, she be- 
took herself to making up a number of small parcels of 
necessary articles to put in Manch’s basket when he should 
arrive. She tied up little packages of tea, sugar, crack- 
ers, etc., and put beside them a loaf of bread and one of 
light cake, some sandwiches, a bottle of wine, and a can 
or two of condensed soup, brought up from the store- 
room. 

“Manch can warm it over a few coals; he can make 
a little lire in the middle of the block-house, on a pile of 
dirt or a flat stone or two,” she thought, as she tied up 
the packages with deft fingers, and pleased herself with 
thinking that if she could have her way, how comfort- 
able she could make Ishmael in the old haunted block- 
house. She stopped thinking, to smile at herself. 

“ Clearly, I was never meant for a fine lady,” she 
said — I enter with too much zest into the makeshifts 
of vagabondism.” And then she added softly : Perhaps 
I ought to have remained a vagabond. It would have 
been better than the fate that seems destined for me — 
that of an unloved, distrusted wife.” Again she stopped 
and repeated bitterly the word “ Wife ? — I am not his 
wife ! I have no right to his love — no right to this po- 
sition, these luxuries ! I have no right to anything but 
the poor discomfort of the fisherman’s hut. I shall never 
feel honest and true again until the truth is known, and 
I have relinquished the false position I occupy — relin- 
quished, too, my false claim upon a noble man.” 

A clock striking the hour of eleven made her sudden- 
ly start up and walk to the window anxiously. So late, and 


MAJSrCH. 


149 


Manch had not yet appeared ! She half resolved to face 
old Hagar, and ride to the “ Wildcat’s Den ” to inquire 
about him. She was afraid to visit Ishmael’s hut again, 
lest she should increase the chance of notice and suspi- 
cion being drawn to it. While she was debating with 
herself, the Stanley carriage drove to the door, and she 
had to descend to the drawing-room and receive the trio 
of laughing and excited girls, who had come with their 
tall brother, their bandboxes, and smart mulatto maid, 
eager for the j^leasures of the ball. Lunch was announced 
soon after ; Melicent thought it would never be over. 
Then they had an hour of music and chatty examination 
of the latest magazines, with their fashion-plates and 
patterns of crochet and bead-work. Still no Manch. 
Melicent’s anxiety became almost too great for outward 
composure. At last the idea occurred to her, that if she 
could go to the fortune-teller’s, she might find Gabriel 
there, and have an opportunity of speaking a warning 
word in his ear. But how should she get off from her 
guests ? She hit upon an expedient for keeping their at- 
tention occupied. She invited them up to her room, and, 
throwing open armoires, trunks, and boxes, gave them 
permission to examine her things.” Every woman 
knows the value of such a privilege — the interest which 
such an occasion inspires. In a little while the beds, 
chairs, and tables were strewed with dresses, shawls, hats, 
mantles, skirts — all the delicate paraphernalia of a lady’s 
wardrobe. Then Melicent said : 

“ Look at them as much as you please, my dears ; but 
excuse me if I leave you to yourselves awhile. Flora 
will show you whatever you care to see.” 

The girls were well pleased to be left to themselves. 


150 


MAJ^CH. 


to dip about among the bright confusion of things and 
chatter like blackbirds over a stubble-field. 

Melicent, by her manceuvre having got rid of her 
maid’s prying observation, descended to the library, and 
put on, unobserved, a loose traveling-wrap which had 
been hanging behind the door since she wore it last. 
She doubled a barege veil over her face, and, thus in a 
manner disguised, went out without attracting attention, 
and hurriedly took her way to Welcome Street. 

Not till she had opened the gate that led into the 
neglected little door-yard did it strike her what an un- 
usual thing she was about to do in visiting a house whose 
inmates were most likely people of evil character, and 
where no reputable women went. What would be 
thought if it was known ? What would her husband 
think ? 

The parrot that had been watching her, as it swung 
head downward in its cage, suddenly righted itself, and 
screamed discordantly: “Come in — come in, you fool! 
We’ll take you in ! ” 

Its harsh, discordant laugh, its words (capable of 
double meaning), sounded mocking and ominous, and 
jarred upon Melicent’s excited consciousness. She turned 
as if to fly, when the door of the house opened and the 
gay little figure of the fortune-teller appeared on the 
porch. 

“Be quiet, Poll!” she cried, shaking her finger at 
the parrot. “ You are a naughty and impolite bird. — 
Don’t mind her, madam. Enter — enter, I beseech you.” 

She ran down the steps and met Melicent with smiles 
and courtesies, and drew her into the house. As they 
passed the first door that opened into the narrow passage. 


MAJ^CH, 


151 


Melicent caught a glimpse of the old woman she had seen 
once before, stooping over a small fire on the heartli 
where a pot was boiling. She had just taken out a,mor- 
sel upon a wooden spoon, and was giving it to the sulky 
poodle that sat by eying her movements. As he swal- 
lowed it daintily, the old dame cried in French : 

“ ]N^ow, give me a kiss for thanks, my pretty ” ; and 
wiping the dog’s mouth with her dingy handkerchief, 
she kissed it with a hearty smack. Mademoiselle Maline 
laughed merrily. 

One can see that those two are on good terms,” she 
said, nodding toward the old woman, Avho looked up and 
saw them for the first time. 

“ Make 'em pay well — make ’em pay well, ma petite! ” 
she cried, nodding her own head with its dirty cap. 

Never mind, dame ; I’ll attend to my own affairs,” 
returned the girl, opening a door on the other side of 
the passage and peeping in. 

Melicent had a momentary glimpse of a tall figure 
stretched on a lounge, with his hands locked under his 
head, smoking and musing, as it seemed. 

“ That is right,” said the Frenchwoman, with her 
head inside the door. “ Make yourself comfortable until 
I return. Place aux dames, you know.” 

Melicent had recognized Colonel Archer, and she 
drew back and turned to her companion. 

You have visitors,” she said ; I will come another 
time.” 

By no means. I will take you to a private room. 
I merely wanted to look in and ask the gentleman to 
excuse my absence.” 

But I prefer to come another day— say to-morrow. 


152 


MAJ^CH. 


at this hour,” persisted Melicent, putting some money 
into the woman’s hand. “No doubt you have many 
visitors,” she continued, as they turned back ; “ one can 
hardly find you alone. By the by, is there a young man 
here named Gabriel Griffin ? ” 

“ No,” the fortune-teller replied, “ there is not.” 

“ Has he visited you at any time to-day ? ” 

“No,” mademoiselle answered, with a furtive but 
keen look at Melicent. 

“ Will he be here to day, do you think ? ” 
Mademoiselle shrugged her shoulders. 

“ God knows ! ” she said. “ How is one to rely on 
these men ? He wanted me to use my art in his behalf, 
and half promised to return. But no doubt his money 
has gone to the dram-shop ; and what can one do for him 
without money ? ” 

Melicent hesitated a moment longer, twisting a dia- 
mond ring upon the finger of one of her hands that were 
clasped under the full mantle, and reflecting within her- 
self whether it would be of any use to try to bribe this 
woman not to lend herself to Colonel Archer’s plot. She 
decided that it would not do to rely upon her. She would 
take the bribe and make the promise, most likely, but 
would break her word without scruple. Also, she w^ould 
probably betray Melicent to her employer ; and thus the 
only hope of aiding Neil would be cut off, for Colonel 
Archer would not only tell her nothing more, but would 
keep a strict and suspicious watch upon her movements. 

“ Did madam wish to see the young man, Gabriel 
Griffin ? ” queried the fortune-teller, who had been scru- 
tinizing her visitor as closely as the thick veil would per- 
mit. 


MAJ^CH. 


153 


“ No,” said Melicent with well-assumed indifference ; 
“ I do not know him. I happened to hear, by accident, 
that one of his relatives was quite sick, and that he was 
anxiously looked for at home. You might he kind 
enough to mention this to him, if you should see him.” 

Melicent risked this much, feeling sure she was not 
recognized, and hoping that curiosity might induce Ga- 
briel to go home, where she would by that time have con- 
veyed a note or a message by means of Manch. She still 
hoped that the boy would come to-day ; perhaps he had 
arrived during her absence. She hurried away, pursued 
by the shrill screams of the parrot — agitated and disap- 
pointed, but congratulating herself that Colonel Archer 
had not seen her, and that the fortune-teller’s keen 
black eyes had failed to penetrate the thickness of her 
veil. 

As she reached the gate of her own yard, a cry of 
‘‘ Nice, fresh fish ! ” struck her ear. She turned quickly 
and threw up her veil. 

It was not Manch, but a boy much taller, with a shal- 
low basket or creel upon his head. 

‘‘ Buy any fish, madam ? ” he said, coming to her 
side. 

No, I want none to-day,” she answered, and was 
turning off, when the boy asked : 

“ Be you the mayor’s wife ? ” 

“Yes.” 

He held out a piece of crumpled paper. 

“ A chap begged me to give you this here dockyment,” 
he said. “ Hope it’s nothin’ to give offense. I couldn’t 
git round promisin’ to bring it to you — he was so anxious- 
like,” 


154 


MAJ^CH. 


Melicent ran her eyes over the “ dockyment.” 

How did the boy come to give it to you ? ” 

‘‘ Me and my feyther were cornin’ home in the skiff 
from fishin’ up at the mouth of Snaggy Bayou, when 
somebody hailed us, and asked us to come to them. We 
pulled toward him and found this here chap a-sittin’ on 
the bank. He had lamed hisself climbin’ for birds’ nests 
or somethin’, back in the swamp, and had managed to 
crawl and hobble out till he come to the river. But he 
was too much used up to get home ; so he lay there restin’ 
until he seed us. I knowed the chap ; we . calls him In- 
jun amongst us, and he’s a handy boy and good fightin’ 
grit. Well, we took him in with us down river and up 
Black Bayou, and landed him close to his own house. 
Then my feyther says to me, says he, ‘We’s all human 
critters ; I’ll tote this chap up and put him in his bed and 
git him a doctor, for his knee’s sprained or out of joint.’ 
Which he did ; but afore he went the little ’un put this 
in my hand, and begged me to give it right into yours. 
He said you’d understand it, which is more’n I did when 
I took a peep at it. It’s a cur’us-lookin’ paper to me. He 
writ it on the linin’ of his hat.” 

“ Thank you for bringing it,” said Melicent. 

“ I’d a’ brought it this mornin’ soon, only marm had 
a shakin’-ager, and I had to tend the baby till she was 
fetched round a while ago.” 

“ Go around in the back yard to the kitchen. The 
cook will buy your fish, and I will see you again before 
you go away.” 

When she entered the house, Melicent looked again 
through her tears at the scrap of paper, which exhibited 
a lot of singular characters, that being interpreted read^ 


MAJVCH. 


155 


“ I fell from a limb at the block-house and hurt my leg. 
Go to see Ishmael.” 

Melicent sat down and wrote, or rather printed, the 
following message, making it plain and concise as pos- 
sible : 

“ I am very sorry for your hurt. I will come to see 
yon as soon as I can. Try to see Gabriel to-day. Get 

H to find him if he does not come home. 

W arn him not to tell anything to the fortune-teller. 

It is a PLOT against I ” 

This note she gave to the fisher-boy, after paying him 
liberally for his fish, and obtained from him a promise to 
take it immediately to Manch. 


CHAPTEE X. 

The ball at the Bradwells’ was largely attended. As 
usual, Melicent’s grace and beauty (and her novelty as 
bride) had drawn a circle of admirers around her. She 
exerted herself to be agreeable, but her heart was heavy 
with trouble that had more than one source. In addition 
to her anxiety for Ishmael, she had the consciousness that 
her husband’s eyes still wore their look of coldness and 
distrust whenever they turned upon her. Many times, 
too, the image of Manch, anxious but helpless and suffer- 
ing, came up before her in contrast to the light and gay- 
ety around her. 

She was looking lovely in spite of her paleness, seem- 
ing by her dress to personate the wild yellow jasmine, 
the pride of Southern forests, She wore an amber-col- 


156 




ored satin, whose overdress of misty lace was looped with 
garlands of yellow jasmine, a spray of the buds and 
bells of the same flower being fastened in the long curls 
of her hair. 

She had danced a quadriUe, and was talking to her 
partner when her glance lighted upon the figure of Colo- 
nel Archer, conspicuous by his height even in that crowd 
of tall Western men. He made his way to her side. 

“ Is it your policy to hide your light under a bushel 
to-night, lest it should attract too many fluttering moths 
around it ? ” he asked. “ I have been looking for you 
everywhere.” 

‘‘Then you must have seen me, for I have not been 
retiring. Perhaps you saw me in the crowd and did not 
recognize me. I wear my hair diflerently to-night.” 

“ Yes — in a shower of curls. But that makes no dif- 
ference; I should know you in any disguise — even that 
of a hideous loose wrap and double folds of veil,’’ he 
added significantly. 

“ What do you mean ? ” inquired Melicent, in con- 
sternation. “He saw and knew me to-day,” was her 
thought. 

“ I will tell you while we are dancing. Will you give 
me this waltz ? — the music is just beginning.” 

“ You forget — I never waltz.” 

“ Out of deference to your lord and master’s com- 
mands — I remember.” 

“ Out of regard to my husband’s wishes,” corrected 
Melicent. 

“ Set them aside for this once. I am going presently, 
and I make my petition for one waltz,” 

“ You are going so soon ? ” 


MAJ^CH. 


157 


“Yes; I have an appointment. I — but I can not 
talk to von here, with all these listening ears around us,” 
he broke off, bending over her and speaking low. “ Will 
you give me the waltz ? ” 

“ I have told you I would not waltz to-night. There 
are other dances.” 

“ Stupid, insipid affairs ! No — the waltz or no- 
thing.” 

“ It must be nothing then,” Melicent said, with cold- 
ness and irritation in her tones. 

He fixed his eyes upon her with a penetrating look, 
then stooped to pick up the fan she had dropped. As he 
gave it to her he said : 

“When I return you will waltz with me without 
being twice asked.” 

He turned off abruptly. Soon afterward Melicent 
saw him leave the room. His last words added in some 
vague way to her uneasiness. She was sure they had a 
hidden significance. 

In an hour Colonel Archer reentered the ballroom. 
Melicent did not see him when he came in. She was 
leaning against the framework of an open window, feel- 
ing weary and heart-sick. Her husband stood not far off, 
covertly observing her while he affected to be conversing 
and watching the movements of some chess-players near 
him. The tired, sad look on her face extinguished for 
the moment his feelings of mistrust. His heart was filled 
with self-reproachful tenderness. He excused himself to 
the friend who claimed his attention, and was making his 
way to his wife’s side, when he caught sight of Colonel 
Archer approaching also. He stopped short and remained 
at a little distance, quietly observant. 


158 


MAJfCH. 


“ Does the jasmine droop \ ” said the Colonel, at Meli- 
cent’s elbow. “ If so, I bring a reviver.” 

She turned quickly ; a tide of color rushed to her face 
and then instantly receded. Mr. Avery saw her emotion, 
but he did not know that it was caused by the expression 
she saw in Colonel Archer’s eyes. They were absolutely 
flashing. Triumphant elation shone in them, and behind 
this glowed a flercer fire — the look of the bloodhound 
when he has brought his victim to bay. Melicent knew 
well what that look meant. 

“ You have news,” she found courage to say. 

He nodded. 

‘‘ You shall hear it,” he said. “ They are playing a 
waltz again — my favorite. You will not refuse me 
now ? ” 

She gave him her hand wdthout a word. She would 
have done so even if she had seen the look her husband 
cast upon her; for she was consumed by suspense, and 
she felt that a crisis was at hand. Colonel Archer played 
with her anxiety tantalizingly, unconscious what cruelty 
it was. 

“What a slender waist!” he exclaimed, as they 
whirled round to the sweet German music. “It is 
nothing to clasp. How could you muflle it so this after- 
noon? Did you think to disguise yourself from me? I 
knew you when I first peeped at you — standing hesitat- 
ing at the gate. What was your motive in going there ? 
Tell me honestly now.” 

“ Curiosity,” uttered Melicent faintly. “ I wanted to 
know the result of your plot.” 

“ But you learned nothing, and you flitted like a scared 
bird before I could speak to you. The time was not then 


MAKCR. 159 

ripe. I told you to wait patiently and I would bring you 
news of success.” 

“ Do you bring it now \ ” 

“ Yes,” he cried in low, exulting tones. ‘‘ He is found 
— I have succeeded. We have tracked the cowardly wolf 
to his lair ! I shall have revenge for my murdered father 
at last — at last ! ” 

His eyes shone down into hers with a fierce splendor ; 
his face w^as aglow with the blended passions of hate and 
triumph. Melicent could not speak ; her look told him to 
go on. 

“ He is found. He is here, as I suspected. He is a 
fisherman. He lives in a hut on Black Bayou and goes 
by the name of — Ishmael.” 

The room swam round to Melicent — the lights, the 
music, the voices were a dull confusion. She still whirled 
in the waltz by sheer momentum and the strength of her 
partner’s arm ; but her feet hardly touched the fioor ; her 
head leaned heavily on her partner’s shoulder. 

“You are dizzy,” he said ; “ we have waltzed too fast. 
We will sit down and rest.” 

He placed her in a seat, and, noting her white cheeks, 
said, “ I will get you a glass of water.” 

“ Stop one moment,” she managed to say. “ You did 
not tell me — shall you arrest him to-night?” 

“ Yes, in two or three hours from now. I have the 
warrant for his arrest in my pocket. I should have gone 
after him at once, but I wanted to look in here again — 
to tell you, and — to have my way about the waltz. He 
is safe enough ; he is not suspecting — thinks himself all 
right. Just now, indeed, he is doubl}^ safe — he is sick.” 

“Sick?” 


160 


MAJ^CH. 


“ Oh ! he shall be well cared for ; he shan’t have a 
chance to die in his bed and cheat the gallows a second 
time.” 

Melicent shuddered inwardly, but she calmed herself 
by an effort of will. While Colonel Archer was gone for 
the water, she formed a rapid and desperate resolution. 
When he returned, she took the glass from his hand, and 
said with a smile and a bend of the head : 

“ I drink to your success. May you prosper in love 
as you have done in revenge ! If you are as indefati- 
gable in the pursuit of the one as you have been of the 
other, there is no maiden’s heart that will resist your 
siege.” 

I lay siege to but one heart,” he said, “ and that is 
too strongly barricaded and too jealously guarded for me 
to hope that it will soon capitulate. But, nil desjperan- 
dumP 

“ A propos of hearts and maidens,” said Melicent gay- 
ly, “ I have one request to make. I have risked my hus- 
band’s displeasure by waltzing — all because of you. You 
owe me some return. Well, do you see that young lady 
in blue sitting yonder partnerless — a forlorn but lovely 
wall-flower ? She is one of the three who came here 
to-night under my chaperonage. I should like her to 
enjoy her first ball, and I know how agreeable you can be 
when you please. I want you to dance with her the set 
that is about to form.” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

“ It is such a bore to dance a quadrille — and with a 
young miss, too ! She is sure to be either hoydenish or 
sentimental, pert or bashful ; in either case, intolerable.” 

“Ho, I assure you she is quite natural and charming. 


MAJ^CR. 


161 


Here, come with me ; let me give her the pleasure of 
your acquaintance — for my sake, remember.” 

“ For your sake I would give her my head.” 

‘‘ Oh ! I shall not ask such a sacrifice in her behalf. 
Only your hand in the next dance — your heart, perhaps, 
as a willing after-gift.” 

And, going across the room with Colonel Archer, she 
presented him to Miss Stanley and left them. 

“Pray Heaven the set may be a long one!” she 
thought as she at once sought out her husband. He was 
talking to a group of gentlemen as she came up. She 
laid her hand on his arm and drew him a little aside. 

“Aleck,” she said, lifting her pleading - eyes to his 
stem face, “ I am tired of the ball, and I feel really ill.” 

“You seemed so just now, madam,” he said, with bit- 
ter emphasis. 

“ You say that because I waltzed with Colonel Ar- 
cher. It was against my inclination. It was in a man- 
ner forced upon me by — circumstances. But you do not 
understand — ^}^ou will not believe me. Let that pass ; I 
am unwell — I wish to go home.” 

He looked at her white face and haggard eyes with 
wonder. And he had seen her laughing so gayly a mo- 
ment ago 1 But there was no mistaking the expression 
of pain about her mouth, the look of wildness in her 
eves. His face relaxed from its mould of cold irony. 

“ You want me to go with you ? ” he said. 

“No; I do not wish to take the Stanley girls away. 
They are dancing and enjoying themselves ; and I would 
not like them to feel slighted, as they would do if we 
both went away. I wish you to stay to excuse my going 
home, and to bring them when they are ready to leave» 


162 


ma:kcr. 


You need only accompany me to the carriage. I will 
send it back. The dance is beginning— I can slip off 
almost unnoticed.” 

He gave her his arm without another word, and she 
passed through the rooms, smiling and bowing her adieux 
and acknowledgment of the concern elicited by her pale 
face and evident indisposition. Mr. Avery handed her 
into the carriage and left her with a simple good night, 
going around afterward to the man on the box and en- 
joining him to drive carefully, as Mrs. Avery was not 
well. 

She was left alone, to her inexpressible relief — left 
to throw herself back upon the seat — to crush her hands 
together and nerve herself for what she intended to do. 

Drive faster,” she said to the coachman. 

He obeyed. In a few moments she was at home. 
She sent back the carriage, unlocked the hall-door, and 
entered noiselessly. There was no sound in response. 
The servants were asleep or amusing themselves in the 
kitchen, situated in the back part of the yard. She ran 
up swiftly to her room, put on a riding-habit over her 
ball-dress, and, going to the library, took a key from her 
husband’s desk, and went out again — out to the stable- 
yard. With the key she unfastened the stable-door and 
entered, lighted only by the moonlight. She went up to 
her own horse — the beautiful half-bred Arabian she had 
brought from home — and patted his arched neck. 

“ You and I part for ever to-night,” she said. ‘‘ Do 
your best for me. Monsoon, my brave horse. Human 
life will hang on your speed to-night.” 

There were several bridles and men’s saddles hanging 
against the walls. She took down the plainest of these 


MAJfCH, 


163 


and put them on her horse with hands that had not for- 
gotten their early skill. She was a perfect horsewoman. 
Often when she was Milly Brown she had ridden half- 
tamed mustangs barebacked ; so she had no hesitation 
now in springing into the man’s saddle she had girted 
securely upon her favorite. She rode slowly out of the 
stable-yard— -slowly out of the street, but increased her 
speed as she entered the more suburban portion of the 
town, for the houses were dark and there were no pass- 
ers in the streets. When she reached the outskirts of the 
town, she tightened rein and urged her horse into a gal- 
lop. Swiftly she sped along the road that ran parallel to 
Black Bayou. The moon shone wanly out; the long, 
black shadows lay across her path. She had wild mem- 
ories of that other terrible night, when she had ridden 
vainly to the rescue of Neil Griffin so long ago. She 
seemed again to hear that struggling cry of mortal agony, 
to see that swinging form in the red-torch glare, to be- 
hold the ring of cruel faces that encircled the Gal- 
lows Tree.” Would she be again too late ? She glanced 
up at the stars. “ If Colonel Archer did not deceive me, 
I shall be in time,” she thought. “ He said in two or 
three hours, and it has not yet been an hour, I think.” 

She turned out into the dim path that led down to 
the bayou. She forded the stream and approached the 
cabin of Ishmael. What sound was that which came 
from behind the wall of long moss and live-oak boughs ? 
The plaintive notes of a violin touched softly as an ac- 
companiment to the song she had heard Ishmael whis- 
tling while he fed his birds — the mournful little love- 
ballad whose words Colonel Archer had recalled to her 
mind. She checked her horse a moment to listen : 


164 


MAKCE, 


“ My love has friends and fortune, 

The rich attend her door ; 

My love has gold and silver, 

While I, alas ! am poor. 

The ribbon fair that bound her hair 
Was all she left to me. 

While here I lie alone to die 
Beneath the willow-tree.” 

, The words seemed to Melicent to have a touching* 
significance. Tears for the first time rushed to her eyes. 
She dashed them off, sprang from her horse, and stood 
within the doorway of the dimly lighted hut. Her hat 
had fallen off, her loose hair fiowed around her ; all arti- 
ficial disguise of dress and expression was banished from 
her at this moment. She had not counted upon the 
effect her presence would have upon Ishmael. He sat 
on the edge of his pallet, his hand lying listlessly across 
his violin, his eyes darker and larger since his illness, 
looking wistfully forward. 

“ Ishmael.” 

He turned around ; he stared at her mutely, wildly ; 
he rose to his feet and tottered forward. 

“ Milly ! Milly ! My God, it is my darling’s spirit ! ” 
he cried, extending his arms. 

Melicent sprang to him and caught him in her own 
grasp, strengthened preternaturally by excitement. 

‘‘ Hush ! ” she uttered ; “ be calm. I am Mrs. Avery. 
Your enemies are upon you. They will be here in a few 
moments. You must fly instantly ; there is not a mo- 
ment to be lost ! I have brought you a horse ; are you 
strong enough to ride ? ” 

“ It is no use ! ” he cried, falling back against the wall, 


MAJ^CH. 


165 


and looking hopelessly forward. ‘‘It had to come. It 
is God’s hand. I am tired of the struggle.” 

“ It is of use to try to save yourself. You can do it. 
Courage, courage ! Come at once — for Manch’s sake, for 
my sake ! ” 

He was looking at her wildly, yearningly, seeming to 
lose sight of his danger in one thought. 

“ Oh, rny God ! how like she is to Milly ! ” he mut- 
tered. 

Melicent had found him his coat. 

“Put it on,” she said. “Is your purse in it? Yes. 
See, I put this loaf of bread into the other pocket. You 
will not have time to stop for food. Ah ! you have on 
your shoes — that is well. Here is your hat. How come, 
Ishmael ; come at once ! Lean upon me.” 

She threw her arm about him. She overcame his 
weakness, his despondency, by her own strength and 
courasre. She drew him out to where the horse was stand- 
inir. She held the bridle while he mounted. 

“ Good-by,” she whispered ; “ good-by, Ishmael. God 
be with you ! ” 

He gave her hand a convulsive and trembling pres- 
sure. 

“ You have befriended me as no other human being 
ever did. God bless you for it, lady ! The thanks of a 
poor creature like me are a small return.” 

He galloped away through the shadows. Melicent 
fell upon her knees, silently praying as she listened to 
the sound of the retreating hoof-strokes. As it died avray, 
a thought of herself for the first time came into her mind. 
She must return at once. It would be broad day before 
she could reach home. How should she account for her 


166 


MAXCH. 


absence ? How should she meet her husband’s indignant 
anger, his scornful suspicion? She had seen that his 
distrust was culminating. How she felt there would be 
an open outburst — a public shame. Her little social 
world, where she had trod as a queen, seemed tottering 
under her. Her home world of love and peace and con- 
fidence had already been hopelessly darkened by the shad- 
ow of secrecy and suspicion. 

She was thinking these bitter thoughts — still kneeling 
with her face buried in- her hands. Suddenly she lifted 
her head. The tramp of a horse was again audible. She 
listened intently. The sound grew more distinct — came 
nearer and nearer still. What could it mean? Was Ish- 
mael returning ? “ What can he have left behind that 

is so important as his own safety ? ” she thought. 

The dark, moss-hung branches parted ; a man rode 
into the dimly-lighted space, leading a horse bridled and 
saddled. One glance sufficed : the man was Colonel 
Archer, and the horse was Monsoon ! 


CHAPTER XI. 

Colonel Archer dismounted and stood before her. 
“Mrs. Avery, I have brought back your horse,” he 
said. 

“ But where is he ? Where is Ishmael ? ” she cried. 

“ If you mean Heil Grriffin, the murderer, he has been 
arrested ; he is on his way to prison.” 

“Too late ! O God ! I was too late again ! ” moaned 
Melicent. 


MAJ^CH. 


167 


“ ‘ Too late again.'* Mrs. Avery, what do you mean ? 
What is this man to you ? ” 

She made no reply. She did not seem to hear him. 
She stood wringing her hands together and looking de- 
spairingly out into the darkness. The light from Ish- 
mael’s lamp streamed through the window and fell across 
her white, anguished face. He looked at her intently, 
wonderingly, a moment ; then he repeated his question : 

‘‘ What was this man to you ? ” 

She turned her eyes upon him. 

“You deceived me. You said he would not be ar- 
rested in three or four hours.” 

“Afterward I thought best to hurry matters. The 
sequel shows I was correct. We were just in time to in- 
tercept him. You had nearly forestalled us. And you 
talk of deception — you^ who have played me false all the 
time ! And I never guessed your double-dealing — ^never 
had a real suspicion of your treachery, until it was sug- 
gested to me to-night by a woman. It takes the sex to 
understand each other. So I took to heart Mademoiselle 
Maline’s hint of your interest in Griffin, and watched you 
closely when I made my communication. I saw your 
emotion ; I understood the manoeuvre about the dance 
with your young lady charge. She had her dance, since 
I had promised you, but it had nearly cost me my revenge 
— or rather, it had nearly caused its postponement. We 
had to ride in hot haste, and it was a lucky chance that 
we were in time to see Monsoon dash into the road a 
hundred yards ahead of us.” 

“ Ah ! if I had made more haste ! ” 

“ That would have availed nothing ; only made a 
delay — ^given us a chase for our fox. Do you think I 


168 


MAJfCH. 


would have suffered him to escape ? But it was not your 
fault that he was caught ; you did your best to frustrate 
me. You have risked to-night — more than I care to 
name. I never suspected you of so much courage or — so 
much duplicity.” 

“Think of me as you please,” answered Melicent 
gloomily. “ It is humiliating, but it is nothing to what 
he has to bear.” 

She was hardly conscious that she spoke aloud. She 
did not reflect upon what Colonel Archer might think, 
or what suspicions of her might be excited in his mind. 
Thought of herself was of small account at this moment. 

“ You could not speak with more feeling if this man 
were your lover , Colonel Archer said, with irritated 
significance in his tones, but drawing nearer to her as he 
spoke. 

She started from her listless gloom as if she had heard 
the hiss of a serpent. She drew back a step, and lifting 
her head, stood before him — transformed in an instant 
into an image of proud dignity. Her eyes flashed one 
withering look upon him ; then she turned calmly away. 

^ “ I might have known that such as he would put an 
evil construction upon what I have done to-night,” she 
said, with a sad scorn in her voice. 

“ And what other construction, in the name of Heav- 
en, could you expect, Mrs. Avery ? ” 

“ One befitting a being with a soul as well as sense ; 
a reference to compassion, sympathy, duty— a belief in 
some mystery that might have misfortune in it, but not 
guilt. But no — I am at fault. I expected nothing of 
the kind ; I expect nothing of you. Colonel Archer. Our 
paths, that have met casually, separate now for ever. I 


MAJ^CB, 169 

am going ; 1 wish you good night. — Here, Monsoon — 
come here.” 

The horse turned at her call and came to her, where 
she stood on the low step at the cabin- door. 

“ Stay ! ” cried Colonel Archer impetuously, his better 
instincts rising dominant. “ Listen to me, I entreat you. 
I do not doubt you ; no sane man can that looks into 
your face. I believe in you, in spite of circumstances. 
I will not seek to pry into your motives or your feelings ; 
I will respect them. Ho act of mine shall again add to 
your distress or annoyance. Forgive me. Think of me 
as a friend. I can not beay that you should think of me 
only as a revengeful and a sensual man. Will you not 
look upon me as a friend ? ” 

She stooped to gather the reins more closely in her 
little, white-gloved hands. 

“ The time is passing,” she said. “ We return by dif- 
ferent roads ; I shall take the foot-path on this side the 
bayou.” 

She bent her head, stately as ever ; she touched her 
horse, that, springing forward, disappeared behind the 
moss-hung trees. 

“ She would not accept my offered friendship,” mut- 
tered Colonel Archer. ‘‘ Well, it is hers all the same. 
One can afford to be loyal to such a woman — proud and 
gentle as though princess-born ! What a fool I was to 
think she could be easily won ! But such a woman’s love 
would be worth having. I wonder if it is possible she 
can love that pale, wild-eyed wretch we nabbed just now ! 
Be it love or pity, or whatever else, that was the motive, 
she has shown herself devoted to him to-night. I’ll be 
hanged if it wasn’t heroic, all things considered ; for 
8 


lYO 




scandal is worse to a woman than a two-edged sword, and 
she has braved that and Avery’s anger to boot. If they 
find out about this midnight adventure, the wolves of 
gossip will be upon her, sure. It’s odds if Avery inter- 
poses. He’s more apt to side with them and cast her off 
in a fit of jealous madness. He ought to be shot if he 
does, and I’d like to call him out myself unless, indeed — 
but no, I’d stake my life on her honor. I’ve let my 
vanity blind me into construing things my own way ; but 
I saw to the bottom of her soul in that look she gave me 
to-night. There’s some deuced mystery that I can’t see 
into ; but, come what may. I’ll stand her friend, whether 
she wills it or not. I’ll serve her any way 1 can, except 
setting free that villain I have in my clutch at last. I 
wouldn’t forego giving him his dues — not if my father’s 
ghost should beg it ! ” 

While these thoughts ran through his mind. Colonel 
Archer entered the cabin of Neil Griffin and surveyed its 
scanty contents. The mocking-bird, awakened by the 
music and light, burst out into a wild carol ; the squirrel, 
coiled up in his box, peeped out of his hed of moss ; the 
violin lay beside the straw pallet ; a rough crucifix hung 
over the window, and beneath it bloomed a box of sweet 
violets. 

“ Singular furniture for a murderer’s den,” commented 
Colonel Archer, as he closed the door, which had not 
even a lock, and, mounting his horse, rode rapidly away. 


MAJSVH, 


171 


OHAPTEK XII. 

The night was nearly spent, the moon was paling in 
the sky, as Melicent rode back along the deserted streets. 
The ball was not yet over ; the sound of the merry dance- 
music reached her ear from afar. How strangely it 
sounded ! — how strongly it contrasted with the solemn 
silence of the woods she had just left — with the mourn- 
ful cadence of IshmaePs song, that still rung in her ears ! 
The sounds of merriment increased yet more the confu- 
sion in Melicent’s brain. The night’s adventure — was it 
not a terrible dream ? The brief, wild interview with Xeil 
— his looks, his tones, when he staggered to her with out- 
stretched arms, calling her by that name long dead — his 
flight, his arrest — were they not all a dizzy vision, caused 
by that whirling waltz, whose music seemed to be playing 
still — that waltz with Colonel Archer,^ when her-husband 
had watched her with stern eyes, and her partner, bend- 
ing down, had whispered in her ear : 

‘‘ Eureka ! the murderer is found ! ” 

She was partially roused from this trance-like state by 
the stopping of her horse. He had entered the stable- 
yard, and stood before the door of his stall. Mechani- 
cally Melicent dismounted and stood beside him. Her 
brain still reeled and wild images floated indistinctly be- 
fore her. She leaned her arms upon Monsoon’s neck, 
and, bending her head down upon them, tried to arouse 
and collect her numbed faculties. She started as a hand 
grasped her arm. She looked around with a faint cry, 
and saw her husband. • 


in 


MAJfCH. 


“ Give the horse to me,” he demanded, taking the 
bridle from her hand. 

She did not heed his hoarse, stern tones. She flung 
herself on his breast ; the tension of her overstrained 
nerves gave way, and she clasped him convulsively, while 
her frame shook with tearless sobs. He lifted his arms 
as if to clasp her, then dropped them quickly to his side. 

“ Go to the house ! ” he commanded. He unloosed 
her clinging arms and put her back from him sternly. 
‘‘ Go to your room at once, and make as little noise as 
you can — for your own sake ! ” 

She sighed deeply and turned away. She entered the 
house and found the lamp in the hall burning, but no one 
there. As she passed along the corridor she could hear 
the voices and laughter of the Stanley girls. They had 
but just returned from the ball, and were chatting over 
the events of the night as they undressed. 

“ Hush ! ” she heard one of them say as she passed 
their door. “ You. will disturb poor Mrs. Av6ry.” 

She felt- like a guilty wretch as she stole to her room, 
and, taking the key from her pocket, unlocked the door, 
entered, and undressed before any one came in. Present- 
ly Flora rapped softly at the door, turned the handle, and 
peeped in. 

“ You up. Miss Melicent ? ” she said, coming in. “ Is 
your head any better ? You look dreadful pale. Mr. 
Avery wouldn’t let me knock at your door before for 
fear of ’sturbin’ you. He said you had come home sick. 
Why didn’t you call me and let me help you undress ? ” 

To Melicent’s eye there seemed to be a suspicious 
keenness in the look with which the girl regarded her. 
She answered coldly : 


MAJ^CH, 173 

“ I did not need you — nor do I now. There is no- 
thing I want but quiet. You can go to bed.’’ 

When the girl had gone, she threw on a dressing- 
gown and waited for her husband to come up stairs — 
waited, while moments passed and the noises all died into 
silence, and the house was so still that she could hear 
the fierce beating of her own heart. At last she heard 
his step in the passage outside. He was going on to 
another room, when she opened the door and called to 
him. He stopped, hesitated, and finally came in. He 
stood before her, with his hand upon the door, partially 
closing it behind him. 

What is it you want with me, madam ? ” 

“ Only that you should not think evil of me, Aleck.” 
“ Think evil of you ? ” he repeated, throwing back 
his head and laughing in bitterest scorn. Surely not. 
Would I think evil of a snake* that should crawl to 
my fireside, warm itself at my hearth, and sting me ? 
Would I think evil of it, or would I merely crush it and 
fling it from me with loathing ? ” 

He threw off the hand she had laid upon his, stepped 
back, and folded his arms on his breast. 

“ Yery well,” said his wife, growing ashen pale as her 
hand dropped at her side. ‘‘Yet I must still appeal to 
you, Aleck. I can bear anything better than your con- 
tempt. Believe in my truth, if it is hard to do so. I am 
imfortunate, but not guilty. If you knew all, you might 
not love me any more, but I should have your sympathy, 
your respect. That would be much — that would help me 
to bear up under my hard fate ; but to have you think 
evil of me — to have you think of me as so base, so un- 
worthy — that — oh ! that is bitter ! ” 


174 


MAJ^CH. 


He looked at her, standing before him in her white 
dressing-gown — so pale, so sorrowful, but so earnest, so 
candid in look and voice. 

“ Believe you ! trust in you ! ” he cried. “ Do you 
think me an idiot ? You talk of trust and belief, and you 
offer no explanation of your unaccountable conduct to- 
night! Will you tell me your object in putting forth a 
pretense of illness, that you might go home alone — that 
you might ride off at midnight and be away for hours — 
no one knows where ? Will you tell me why and where 
you went, and your reason for covering up your intention 
with secrecy and falsehood ? ” 

She was silent a moment. Her promise to her father, 
in answer to his solemn injunction that she should never 
betray the secret of her life — the creeping fear she had 
begun to entertain that her father’s welfare was somehow 
darkly bound up with ‘this secret — made her hesitate. 
She could not speak until she had heard from her father. 
The old habit of blind obedience to him, of reverence for 
him, asserted itself even in view of the alternative of 
sorrow and shame. 

‘‘I can not tell you, Aleck — not now. Bear with me 
a few days, and it may be I shall be permitted to explain 
all.” 

“Miserable subterfuge!” he cried. “Madam, your 
hypocrisy sinks you even lower than your unfaithfulness. 
I put no faith in a mystery that a wife can not explain 
to her husband. 1 will not listen to such trifling. Do 
not dare to speak to me again of your innocence.” 

“ I will, I must speak to you of it, Aleck ! ” she cried. 
Coming swiftly to his side and casting herself on her 
knees before him. “ I will swear it by the God above us ! 


MAJ^CH. 


1T5 


I can not lose your esteem ; it is the only consolation I 
can have. A strange, a cruel fate has overtaken me. I 
am obliged by circumstances to keep it secret from you 
for the present. It will deprive me of your love, your 
protection, but let it spare me your sympathy and respect. 
Leave me that stay iu the midst of my trials. Believe 
that I am not guilty — that I am not untrue.” 

He looked at her as she knelt before him, with up- 
raised eyes full of anguish, but clear and steadfast. His 
features were convulsed by the strong struggle within 
him between tenderness and suspicion. His mouth re- 
laxed from its sternness and trembled as he tried to 
speak. 

“ Melicent,” he said huskily, ‘‘ rise. Do not kneel at 
my feet in that way.” 

He put out his hand as if to raise her, and touched 
the soft hair that fell in loose masses about her. He 
drew back quickly, as if he feared to touch her, lest it 
should melt his sternness. He made an effort to regain 
his self-control. 

‘‘ Since you have had recourse to oaths,” he said, 
‘Hake one that I will accept as a test of your truth. 
Swear to me that you have not seen or spoken to Colonel 
Archer since you left the ballroom to-night — that you 
have had no private interview with him since you rode 
away from here at midnight.” 

She did not speak ; she remembered that she could 
not do so in a way to command his belief, unless she 
could explain everything; then, feeling "how her silence 
must be construed, she grew confused — a shadow of dis- 
tress passed over her face. It looked to his eyes like guilt. 
His features took their set, stony expression once more. 


1Y6 


MAJfCH. 


“Enough!” he cried. “Do not perjure yourself. 
Do not speak again.” 

He turned from her and flung open the door. On its 
threshold he paused and fixed his ejes upon her; a look 
of keen pain came into them and mingled with their 
flerce indignation. 

“ Melicent Avery,” he said, in the deep, low utter- 
ance of concentrated feeling, “ I have loved you as dearly 
as ever man loved woman ; I trusted you wholly. You 
have deceived me — you have ruined me. You have 
turned my love into torture. You have dashed my am- 
bitious hopes to the ground. You may make me a mur- 
derer and an outcast. God forgive you — you have ruined 
me ! ” 

He closed the door and left her to the anguish of her 
own reflections. She remained kneeling where he left 
her, overwhelmed by the tide of bitter and bewildering 
feelings. In the chaos of her mind one thought took 
definite shape. 

“ I must go away. I have no right to stay here, to 
spoil a good man’s life, to soil his name, to blight his 
prospects, to torture his heart — it may be, as he said, to 
make him a murderer and an outcast. I must go away. 
I must take my evil fortunes away from this house'; I 
have no right to bring a shadow upon it. I am not his 
wife. Oh ! if I were permitted to tell him this — to say 
to him : ‘ I am nothing to you. I have not disgraced 
your name, for it does not belong to me. I am only a 
cheat — an impostor. Let me go away, and the reproach 
of my name will drop from you and your honorable 
house, and you will be once more free and happy V ” 

Then, as if in contrast with the words “free and 


MAMCE. 


m 


happy,” came up the thought of Neil — Neil in prison, 
sick and desolate. What now could be done to help him ? 
She thought of her father. Might he not be able to save 
Neil, if he would? He was so strong of will, so power- 
ful in his influence over others ; and then he could testify 
many things in Neil’s favor. If only he could be in- 
duced to acknowledge the relationship between them — 
' to divulge that secret which was so fatal to her peace of 
! mind. 

She rose from her knees, tossed back the blinding 
waves of her hair, and bathed her burning forehead. 
When she had grown calmer, she sat down and wrote 
! her father all that had happened — all that she had done ; 
disclosed to him, for the first time, the fact that Neil 
I Griffin still lived ; that he was in prison, about to be 
prosecuted by the son of the murdered miner ; that, in 
I consequence of her efforts to warn him, she had excited 
' the distrust of Mr. Avery. She implored her father to 
J help Neil Griffin, by means of money, or through his 
influence, or by enlisting in the case the services of 
talented lawyers that were his friends. She entreated 
him, also, to release her from her promise not to disclose 
, to Mr. Avery the circumstance of her previous marriage. 

“ If I could tell him all,” she wrote, I might still 
j hope to retain his esteem. In the general wreck of my 
life, I might have this one comfort to cling to. As it is, 
I have lost all. Write, then, at once, or send me one 
word by telegraph saying that I may or may not reveal 
the secret that weighs upon me like guilt.” 

She sealed and addressed the letter in the same swift, 
eager manner in which she had written it. The day was 
now shining into her chamber — upon her wan lamp and 


m 


MAJ^CH. 


haggard face. She rang a summons for her maid, who 
appeared after some delay, yawning and rubbing her eyes. 
Melicent gave the letter into her hands and directed her 
to take it to the office at once, that it might be sent off 
in the morning’s mail. 

When the girl was gone, Melicent threw herself upon 
the bed and buried her face in the cool pillowy. But 
sleep would not visit her burning eyes. A maze of many 
images swam before her. She seemed whirling still in 
the dizziest of waltzes — whirling to the maddest music — 
round and round, as it seemed, on the verge of a fright- 
ful precipice — round and round in her partner’s grasp ; 
and suddenly the ground fails beneath her feet — a gulf 
yawns beneath her. She is falling, falling ; no, she 
sways — swings over the abyss — round and round still; 
and raising her eyes to pray for mercy, she sees that it 
is a rope from which she swings — a rope knotted around 
the neck of the man who hangs and strangles as he holds 
her in a dying clutch. And his face ! she sees it as she 
saw it once before — livid, contorted with death-struggles 
— the face of Neil Griffin ! As she stares at it in numb 
horror, she sees the rope severed above his head. She 
feels herself falling — falling through awful space — near- 
ing that gulf below, where black waters roll and hissing 
serpents lift up their crested heads — nearing it ; but, as 
they touch the seething flood, the hand of Unconscious- 
ness wipes the vision from her brain — she knows no more. 

When Flora went to wake her mistress, hours after, 
she found her lying with scarlet cheeks and half-closed 
eyes, in the heavy stupor of fever. 


MAJ^CE. 


179 


CHAPTEK XIIL 

When Melicent recovered consciousness, she found 
herself in bed with the room darkened and quiet, except 
for a murmur cf voices in the subdued tone that tells 
of cautiousness. A confused feeling about the head, a 
heaviness of the limbs came with the first return of sense. 

“ I have been ill,” she thought ; and the next moment 
the recollection of the trying scenes through which she 
had lately passed broke upon her. She closed her eyes 
and lay still, endeavoring to collect energy to take up 
the burden of life again. 

As she lay thus, the murmuring voices reached her 
ear distinctly. She recognized the accents of the Hon. 
Mrs. Bradwell speaking in the condescending tones she 
used in addressing an inferior. 

“ So you say that the mayor does not even know she 
is sick — went ofiP that morning without seeing her at all. 
Well, I must say that is queer; and it is much to be 
regretted, for it will confirm all the dreadful tales that 
are afloat.” 

“ I had it from her own maid, ma’am,” said the snufiy 
voice of Mrs. Simpson, a clergyman’s widow in reduced 
circumstances, who went out as nurse “in the first fami- 
lies only.” “ The girl ran in to tell her mistress about 
the fight between Mr. Avery and that Colonel, and she 
found Mrs. Avery lying on the floor in a faint.” 

“ What caused her to faint ? It must be she had 
heard about the fight.” 

“ The girl said there hadn’t a soul been to her bed- 


m 




chamber. Mr. A very came into the house looking like 
a thunder-cloud, and ran up to his room and down again 
in a minute with a pair of saddle-bags upon his arm. He 
mounted his horse and rode off, and the stable-man said 
he was going on a ’lectioneeriug trip in the country with 
two of his friends. The man told the girl about the 
difficulty, and said Mr. Avery shot the Colonel — what’s- 
his-name — in a quarrel about politics.” 

‘‘ I say politics ! ” smiled the honorable lady, shrug- 
ging her fat shoulders. 

You think that wasn’t what it was about ?” queried 
the other, craning her bony neck toward her vis-a-vis^ 
and taking the snuff-brush out of her ugly mouth for a 
fresh “ dip ” into the black bottle she held. 

“Oh! /don’t pretend to know. I’m down on scan- 
dal, Mrs. Simpson, as you’re aware. It’s something I 
never deal in — never. But people are not all like me, 
and they will talk, Mrs. Simpson, they will ; and one 
can’t stop their mouths nor one’s own ears, can they ? ” 

“ Of course not,” responded the clergyman’s widow, 
with a pious sigh. “ So they say it wasn’t politics as 
them two quarreled about ? ” 

“ That’s the talk, you know. They say the political 
difference was only a blind — a make-belief to save a cer- 
tain person’s name, and that there were other grounds — ” 
“ What do they say they were ? ” 

“ Oh ! don’t ask me. They’re too dreadful — the tales 
that are ringing everywhere about that poor woman there 
— about her doings that night of the ball — ^her pretending 
to be sick and coming home, leaving her husband and 
the Stanley girls behind, and then mounting her horse 
and riding off into the woods and Grod knows where — 


MAKCR. 


181 


only coming back at daybreak. That’s not half they 
say indeed, it’s too dreadful to repeat ! ” 

“ My gracious ! ” ejaculated the relict, raising her 
bony hands and speaking in a tone of intense satisfaction. 
“ Why, the poor thing’s ruined herself — and so proud and 
high-headed as she was ! ” 

“Well, her pride will have a fall. She has ruined 
her husband too. The General thinks the affair with 
Colonel Archer has lost Avery his election. Everybody 
knows he provoked the quarrel. The witnesses say he 
was so insulting the Colonel had to retort, and then 
Avery called on him to arm himself, jerked out his re- 
volver, and fired at Archer’s heart. What saved him was 
an opera-glass he had in his breast-pocket. That turned 
the shot, and it went into his right arm. The Colonel 
fired in the air, and was very quiet and calm all the time. 
Avery was very violent. The General thinks he has 
injured his popularity, and that he’d better staid and 
cleared up things to his constituents here, instead of going 
off into the country as soon as he had given himself up 
and been released on bond.” 

“ It’s a monstrous pity ! Such a fine, rising young 
man as the mayor was always called.” 

“ Yes ; a rising, money-making man — if he’d only 
married here^ where he made his money, instead of going 
off after a strange woman. I’m not speaking for my own 
daughter at all. It’s a blessing now that that never took 
place. But there are other girls around here if Arabella 
couldn’t love him. I say — I mean people will say — this 
is a judgment on him for not marrying in his own State, 
like that Goliath in the Bible that took the strange wo- 


182 


MAJ^CH. 


man Delilali, and she cut his head off — which the mayor 
had better take warning by.^’ 

“ Yes, yes,” assented the widow, whose knowledge of 
the Bible enabled her to know that it was Samson and 
not Goliath who had gone after the strange woman, and 
it was his hair and not his head that Delilah had cut off. 
But she would almost have suffered her own head to he 
cut off before she would have contradicted this rich 
lady. 

The Hon. Mrs. Bradwell looked at her heavy gold 
watch and rose slowly, shaking out the folds of her black 
silk. 

“ She sleeps a long time,” she said, glancing at the 
bed where Melicent lay with closed eyes. “ The doctor 
said she had been asleep an hour when I came. He says 
the fever has nearly cooled off, and she will wake in her 
right mind. I thought I’d stay awhile and see how she 
would be and how she’d take it. It’ll have to be broke 
to her, you know.” 

Yes, it’ll have to be broke to her. Hadn’t you bet- 
ter break it to her yourself, Mrs. Bradwell ? . She’ll feel 
it more, coming from a lady of your high standing.” 

“ Well, I can do it, I suppose,” replied the pompous 
matron resignedly. “ I’m used to having such delicate 
matters put upon me. I’ll call in as I come back ; she 
will he awake by that time.” 

When the door had closed behind the scandal-hating 
dame, Melicent turned her head, opened her large eyes, 
and looked fixedly into the hungry, hawk-like visage of 
the parson’s rejict. 

“ Why — so you are awake ! How do you feel, my 
poor dear ? Better, I can see — thanks to a merciful Provi- 


MAJfCH. 183 

dence,” said the fawning Simpson, coming up to the bed 
and stretching out her claw-like hand. 

Melicent put her aside with a little quietly repellent 
gesture. 

“ How long have I been ill ? ” she asked. 

Oh ! not long ; a little touch of the fever — that’s 

all.” 

“I have been delirious, and I want to know how 
long ! ” demanded Melicent with decision. 

“ Three days,” replied the woman, taken aback by her 
manner. 

“ Has anything come for me during that time — any 
letters or other communications ? ” 

Mrs. Simpson hesitated, but said at last there were 
two letters and a sealed telegram that came this morning. 
“ Bring me the telegram, if you please.” 

“Beally, now, my dear Mrs. Avery, the doctor 
said — ” 

‘‘Never mind now what the doctor said ; you can tell 
me that some other time. Bring me the telegram at 
once.” 

There was no disobeying the imperious command of 
voice and eye. The woman brought the envelope and 
put it into Melicent’s hand. She tore it open with trem- 
bling haste. There were but two lines in answer to her 
letter, but they were full of import to Melicent. 

“ JSTo ; not one word, as you value more than life ! 
Hememher your 'promise. Come to 'me at onceP 

Melicent dropped the slip of paper from her hand. 
She had lost her last hope of being able to exculpate her- 


184 


MAXCH. 


self in the eyes of the man she loved. If she could not 
reveal everything to him, she could not explain the rea- 
son of her strange conduct. And she could reveal no- 
thing in the face of her father’s solemn protest and her 
own promise. Again there went through her with a 
pang of conviction the feeling that there must be some 
more powerful motive than was immediately apparent 
for her father’s determination to conceal the secret of 
their changed identities at all hazards. Was it possible 
there could be any stain of shame or crime upon that ear- 
lier life of his prior to that mysterious advent at Bear’s 
Bend — a stain which he feared the revelation of his 
changed name might cause to be traced and brought to 
light ? But in spite of the shadow that had lately fallen 
upon her estimate of her father, she found it impossi- 
ble to connect any idea of crime with him — the noble- 
browed, stately old man, with his stern eye and voice that 
could soften so tenderly for her. Yes, she would go to 
him at once — as soon as she could leave her bed ; she re- 
solved upon that. She could not stay here — here where 
her presence brought only pain and disgrace. She had no 
right to stay an hour longer. She had driven Mr. Avery 
from his home ; she had injured, perhaps ruined his pros- 
pects ; she could do Ileil no good by staying, and perhaps 
her father might help him if she could see him and per- 
suade him to do so. 

Yes, she would go to her father. She would struggle 
with this bodily weakness and this bitterer heart-pain, and 
overcome them. She called for food. When it w’as 
brought, she ate with an eagerness born of her determi- 
nation to get well. As she finished. Flora took the plate, 
saying: 




185 


“ That soup’s nice, I know. It’s bird soup, Miss Meli- 
cent — de plumpest little partridges ; and who does you 
think brought’ em ? Why, dat little bushy-headed fisher- 
man’s boy you bought de rocks and glass things from. 
And he wouldn’t take a cent of pay. He’s been here 
several times ’quirin’ after you. He’s crippled hisself 
somehow and walks on a crutch. He looks bad, I tell you. 
I thought he mout be hungry and give him some vittles, 
but he wouldn’t eat a moufful. He looks mighty down- 
hearted, and he wanted to see you anyhow, but I told 
him that wouldn’t begin to do ; the doctor done said you 
had information in your head.” 

“ If he comes again. Flora, bring him up to see me — 
do you hear ? ” 

‘‘Yes, Miss Melicent ; but — but I doesn’t know 
what a lady like you can' want to see the likes of him 
for.” 

“ That concerns only me,” said Melicent. “ You have 
simply to do what I have told you.” * 

At this moment the doctor was announced, and, com- 
ing in, was greatly surprised to see how suddenly the 
disease had quit its hold, and what a rapid improvement 
a few hours had wrought in his patient. 

“ All you need now is to take care of yourself and keep 
quiet.” 

“And see no company, doctor; lay that down as a 
stringent injunction, please.” 

He looked at her quickly. He thought he understood 
her motive. He knew whab keen torture it was in the 
power of women to inflict. 

“ Yery well,” he said, smiling. “That is best if you 
can really keep the women away.” 


186 




Hardly had he gone before the Hon. Mrs. Bradwell 
called in upon her mission to heap coals of fire on Meli- 
cent’s conscience and see how she bore it, that she might 
form her opinion of her guilt or innocence accordingly ; 
a mode of trial that would remind one of the old-time test 
of witchcraft — ^namely, to throw the suspected witch into 
the water, when, if she drowned, she was innocent ; if she 
fioated, she was a witch and must be burned. 

Melicent declined to see her visitor. 

Dr. McPhail has just forbidden me to see company,” 
she said to Mrs. Simpson. 

“ She says she saw the doctor, and he told her to go 
on ; and besides, she has something to communicate to 
you. Things has happened that ought to be broke to you, 
my poor dear, and Mrs. Bradwell thought — ” 

“ I want no one to break anything to me. I know all 
that has occurred since I was taken sick. I do not wish 
to be spoken to about it. I will not see Mrs. Bradwell or 
any one else, except one person that I have told the ser- 
vant about.” 

And so Mrs. Avery balked the curiosity of her for- 
mer “ dear friends” ; and, in revenge, they fell upon her 
reputation and attacked it with so much vigor and such 
fertility of invention as soon to reduce it to tatters. 
Those who had been in raptures over “ that sweet crea- 
ture, the mayor’s wife,” were first to declare they had 
always seen there was something wrong about her, and 
that the sweet, stately way some folks raved about had 
always struck them as boldness. 

That afternoon, while Mrs. Simpson, with her prayer- 
book held piously before her, was regaling herself on a 
pickle and a ham sandwich she had stowed away at din- 


MAJfCH. 


187 


ner in the pocket of her rusty bombazine dress, the cook^s 
I rosy, good-humored face was thrust in at the door, and 
I her voice was heard exclaiming : 

I ‘‘Well, thin! here’s that mite of a boy again, and 
nothing will do him at all, at all, but I must bring this 
trumpery bit of a nosegay up to the madam.” 

As she spoke, she flourished a little bunch of wild 
flowers mixed with wood mosses and scented by a spray 
of yellow jasmine. Flora caught it and jerked it around 
in her fingers with great contempt. 

“ A pretty thing to send to a lady dat has gardens of 
fine flowers, let alone de grand bouquets in de vases down 
stairs her friends done sent her ! ” 

“ Give them to me,” said Melicent, her eye lighting 
with pleasure. — “ And go down directly. Flora, and bring 
the child to me. Mrs. Simpson will go down stairs with 
you. I want to see the boy alone. — Wouldn’t you like a 
glass of wine and some sweet biscuits in the dining-room, 
Mrs. Simpson?” 

The individual addressed swallowed the last of the 
ham sandwich as she rose, smirking her thanks ; but Meli- 
cent saw the gleam of cunning malice in her small gray 
eye, and she felt sure that the relict of Parson Simpson 
w’^ould take an early opportunity of relieving her mind 
to the Hon. Mrs. Bradwell respecting the fact of Mrs. 
Avery’s refusing to see respectable ladies, while she held 
private interviews with low fisher-boys who brought her 
flowers and secret messages. 

Melicent felt sure of this, and smiled to herself the 
bitter smile of one in whom the sense of wrong begets a 
spirit of defiance. The hard look softened as the tap of 
Manch’s crutch sounded in the passage outside. When 


188 


MAJfCE. 


the door opened and closed behind him, she stretched out 
her hand to him, exclaiming : 

“How glad I am to see you, Manch! Come to 
me.” 

She drew him close to her and passed her lingers ten- 
derly over his forehead and through his curly hair. 

“My poor boy,” she said, “how thin you are! You 
have suffered. I am very sorry.” 

“ It don’t matter much about me,” he replied. “ I’ll 
soon be all right ; but — ” 

His lip quivered and he looked down. Melicent knew 
he was thinking of Ishmael. 

, “ Have you seen him ? ” she asked. 

He nodded assent. 

“ I saw him this mornin’. You see I’d gone there 
twice before, but they wouldn’t let me in. So I struck a 
bargain with the jailer, and I done yard jobs for him, and 
got him to let me in for my pay.” 

“ He was glad to see you, I am sure.” 

“ He was glad and sorry both. He put his hands on 
my shoulders in his kind, cheerful way ; but I see him 
change color and his eyes drop, and I knowed that he was 
hurt for me to see him there, in that place where they 
puts rogues and blackguards and throat-cutters — ^him 
that’s tender-hearted and gentle as a girl-child. It went 
through me like a knife to see him sitting there so patient 
and sorrowful, like a dumb cre’tur’ that knows it’s inno- 
cent, but can’t help your mistreatin’ it. I wanted to be 
as big as the giant in my book, jest to knock the heads 
offen all the powerful chaps that does wrong and cruel 
things to the poor and weak.” 

“ It is dreadful for him to be there,” said Melicent, 


MAKCH. 189 

It is a miserable place. If we could make him more 
comfortable ! ” 

“ It’s not that ; he’s used to poor fare and a hard pal- 
let. It’s the shame of bein’ there, you know, and the 
horror of dyin’ in that way — swung up for all the town 
to stare at. I know he’s bound to think of that, though 
he won’t let on so, and says it don’t matter how we go 
out of the world ; we are soon forgot, and the dirt lies as 
light on the poor man’s box as on the great one’s fine 
coffin. But I’m forgettin’ what he charged me to say. 
He told nie to thank you in his name for all the pains and 
the risk you took to save him. He said he was ’fraid it 
got you into trouble, and begged me to find out from you, 
and see if there was anything he could say to — to — any- 
body that might be of use to you.” 

‘‘ Ho, there is nothing, tell him. He need not trouble 
himself about me. I do not want him to speak of what 
I did that night.” 

‘‘ He said he couldn’t help doin’ as you wanted. You 
come to him that night like a sperit. He tried to talk 
about how you looked, and he fell to tremblin’. He told 
me he was afeard he spoke to you in some amazin’ way, 
for he was dazed-like and took you for a ghost — the ghost 
of that one that he loved so — that’s dead, you know. 
Might ’ve been he was feverish and not in his right 
mind.” 

‘‘ How is he now \ ” asked Melicent, hurrying away 
from a subject that it agitated her to think about. 

“ He says he’s no worse, and he tries to be cheerful- 
like. He made me spell my lesson to him, and he sent 
funny messages to his birds. I carried him his squirrel, 
and he made him a little bed in the corner. He give me 


190 




this money to take back to you. They didn’t find it, 
somehow, when they searched him.” 

‘‘ It is not mine, you remember. I bought the curi- 
osities of him.” 

“ But what good can money do him in there ? And 
they say he’ll never get out — never; and that after the 
trial they will put him in a dungeon, where it is dark and 
cold, and let nobody in to see him.” 

“ He may get clear,” said Melicent. “lam going to 
see my father. I will try to get him to do something for 
Ishmael. This money may help me to employ a good 
lawyer to take charge of his case.” 

Manch looked down thoughtfully, and seemed to wish 
to say something, that he yet hesitated to speak about. 

“ I went to the jail this mornin’, intendin’ to tell Ish- 
mael something, but somehow I didn’t ; I thought I’d tell 
you about it first.” 

“ What is it ? ” 

“ You know how I hurt myself ? ” 

“ The boy said you fell out of a tree when you were 
hunting birds’ nests.” 

“ I told him that ; but it wasn’t birds’ nests I was 
after, you bet. I ’went to the old block-house, you know, 
to fix it up for Ishmael’s hiding-place. I was making the 
ladder, and had my poles and pieces ready to nail, when 
the old hatchet broke off at the helve, and I hadn’t any- 
thing to nail with. I happened to recollect how once, 
when I climbed into the block-house, I saw some pieces 
of old iron lying up there. So I climbed up ‘ Gallows 
Oak ’ and got on one of the limbs that’s grown out close 
to the block house door. I thought I could swing myself 
in ; but the limb broke off right at the fork, and down I 


MAJ^CK 


191 


went and pnt my knee out of place. While I was crawl- 
in’ and limpin’ about, tryin’ to walk, I happened to no- 
tice a queer-looking bundle half droppin’ out of a hollow 
there was in the tree where the limb broke off. I thought 
at first it was a snake or a snake-shed, so I poked at it, 
and down it tumbled ; and I picked it up and saw ’twas 
a strip of snake-skin wrapped round a old silk handker- 
, cher and a rusty knife. The handkercher was matted and 
stained, and the stain looked like blood.” 

Melicent started. 

“ Blood ! ” she muttered. A rattlesnake’s skin ! ” 

“ Here it is. I brought it with me to show to you.” 

He took the dark, scaly-looking roll from his pocket, 
and held it out to Melicent. She essayed to take it, but 
her hand dropped, and she shuddered and grew suddenly 
chill. She signed to Manch to unfold it, and he proceeded 
to unroll the strip of dressed rattlesnake-skin, upon which 
was visible a fragment of a vest-pocket. Inside was the 
remains of a yellow silk handkerchief, matted together 
with a dark substance that looked like blood, and wrapped 
in this was a clasp-knife with the large blade open and 
crusted with black rust. In a corner of the handkerchief 
the initials “H. B.” were worked in black silk, and in 
the handle of the knife the same initials were neatly cut. 

At sight of these things, Melicent grew so faint that 
she nearly swooned. Her mind fiashed back over the 
gulf of years, and she seemed to see before her the body 
of the murdered miner as she had seen it lying, stifi; and 
gory, on the bench in Jacob’s store. Was this the knife 
that had struck that cruel, cowardly blow? — this, and not 
the silver-mounted Spanish blade? This knife, with the 
familiar initials upon it — did she not recognize it at once ? 


192 


MAJ^CE. 


And that handkerchief with the black stains upon it, and 
the letters in the corner — were they not letters her own 
hand had worked ? 

She passed her hand across her forehead, as if to clear 
her brain. Was the fever returning? Was this one 
of the wild delusions of delirium ? ISTo, her brow was 
cool. The musty, moldy package before her was a real- 
ity. A horrible suspicion seized upon her mind. It 
was the murderer of the miner — the murderer of Colo- 
nel Archer’s father — who had concealed these things ; she 
felt an instant conviction of this. The stains of blood, the 
knife, the fact of the things being hid in the hollow of the 
very tree under which the murder was committed — more 
than all, the strip of serpent-skin vest, such as she well re- 
membered the miner to have worn — all these corrobora- 
ted the instinctive impression that had fastened upon her 
when she listened to Manch’s story. It was easy to con- 
jecture how the ghastly package had come to be hid in the 
hollow of the tree. The murderer had hastily wrapped 
the bloody telltales (the knife that had done the deed and 
the handkerchief that had wiped its stains from his hands) 
in a fragment of the snake-skin vest he had just ripped 
from the body, and cut to pieces to get the gold and dia- 
monds that were quilted in it. He had then hurriedly 
thrust the bundle into the safe hiding-place offered by the 
small opening in the hollow trunk that had caught his eye, 
half concealed as it was in the fork of the tree. There, 
protected from rain and damp by the dry hiding-hole and 
the impervious scaly wrapper, the bloody evidences of 
crime had remained ever since, and were now almost as 
fresh as when put there. Melicent stared at them mutely, 
her faculties frozen by the horror of the new suspicion 


MAJrCH. 193 

that forced itself upon her. Manch saw that she shud- 
dered and turned pale. 

“ I’ll put these musty, queer-looking things out of your 
sight,” said he. “ They’ve made you sick.” 

‘‘ IT6 — let me have them, Manch,” she found strength 
to say. “ Koll them up in that clean napkin there, and 
put them in the small drawer of that bureau ; here is the 
key. Tell me, Manch, did you show these things to any 
one, or speak of having found them ? ” 

“ Not to a living soul — only you. I thought I’d show 
them to Ishmael, hut something seemed to hold me back 
from speakin’ about ’em until I’d told you. Do you think 
they’ve got anything to do with the man that was killed 
under that tree once — the one they say poor Ishmael 
killed?” 

“ I can not say. I will look into it better and think it 
over after a while. I can not think now ; my head is con- 
fused. I must try to rest. I will go as soon as I can to 
my father. I will show these things to him, and will 
get him to see what can be done to defend Ishmael. I 
will see you again. You must come every day to see me 
while I stay, and meet me at the depot when I go. Let 
me see your faithful little face the last thing.” 

The next morning Melicent rose and dressed herself, 
and, pale and faint, but resolute, took steps preliminary to 
her departure from her husband’s house. She dismissed 
Mrs. Simpson coolly, the doctor kindly, had the house 
set in order, and packed up a few of her own clothes. In 
an interview with the Honorable Mrs. Bradwell, which 
was forced upon her by that lady’s irrepressible desire for 
information, Melicent baffled her curiosity, rejected her 
hypocritical pity, and defied her insinuated insults by 
9 


194 


MAJfCH. 


the queenly courtesy and impenetrable reserve of her man- 
ner. Not once did she betray how the covert stings of 
her visitor’s talk wounded her ; and none would have 
guessed, from the proud calmness of her eye and voice 
when she bowed adieu to the chagrined lady, how bitter 
were the tears she wept when she was alone. 

On the night of the second day after her interview 
with Manch, Melicent sat in the dimly lighted parlor 
of the railroad depot, waiting to take her place in the 
cars of the eastern train. It was a dark, misty night. 
There were but few persons in the room, and Melicent 
thought silently and bitterly of the contrast between her 
going away from her Western home and her coming to 
it, a few short weeks ago. Then, it was a bright day in 
summer, and she was a happy bride. She had leaned on 
the arm and looked in the loving face of her husband. 
Then a crowd of admiring friends had made her coming 
an ovation, and met her with welcome and congratula- 
tion. Now, she was going alone, in the gloom of the 
night, with a heavier gloom of memory and foreboding 
upon her — bereft of her husband’s confidence and protec- 
tion — pointed at by the finger of calumny, with none to 
say ‘‘ God speed ” or lay a friendly hand in hers, save the 
little forlorn creature at her side. 

Manch was there. He had come through mud and 
rain and darkness to say good-by. He had removed the 
old coat that had been thrown around him, and stood 
timidly at the door, but she saw him and drew him to a 
place near the warm stove. She wiped the rain from his 
face with her handkerchief, and wrapped around him the 
shawl she had worn over her cloak. She put a little 
purse of money, changed into small bills, into his hand. 


MAJfCE, 


195 


“ Don’t put that into your ‘ bank,’ Manch ; it’s to be 
used up before I see you again. You will want some 
clothes, you know, and Ishmael will need little things to 
make him more comfortable.” 

The engine gave its short preliminary whistle, and 
Melicent took her seat in the car, still keeping Manch at 
her side. She clung to his little brown hand, as if it was 
all that was left her of truth or affection on earth. When 
the final signal was given, and the train began to move, 
she drew him to her and kissed him, whispering : 

“ Good-by. Take care of Ishmael.” 

With that kiss thrilling him as though a goddess had 
bent down and touched him with her lips, the child was 
left standing under the car-shed, in the dull light of the 
lamps, looking after and wondering if he should ever see 
her again — the beautiful, pale lady, whom he worshiped 
as the embodiment of all he had ever dreamed of sweet- 
ness, kindness, and grace. 

“ She kissed me,” he muttered to himself, looking 
down at his bare feet and ragged knees. “ She kissed 
me — and she such a lady, with a mouth soft and sweet 
like a wild pink ! And she tied her handkerchief round 
my head to keep the wet of my hat often my hair ! Oh ! 
she’s kind and sweet — that lady is ! I wish I could do 
something grand to please her. If I was only a man, 
I’d — Pd fight for her — I would ! ” 

He stopped and looked down musingly as he traced 
invisible marble-rings with his bare toe. 

‘‘ She looked mighty sorrowful-like,” he said. “ She’s 
down-hearted about something. They say that husband 
of hers went off and left her sick without tellin’ her good- 
by^ and was mighty mad with her about going off that 


196 


MAJfCH. 


night — and she was tryin’ to help poor Ishmael. He 
ain’t good enough for her to break her heart about. I’m 
bound I’ll never throw up my hat and hooray for him 
any more — nary time.” 

He clapped the battered hat in question emphatically 
upon his head as he spoke, and trudged home through 
the rain and mud, still leaning a little upon the crutch, 
for his sprained knee was not entirely well. And at this 
time Melicent was whirling across the darkened country, 
with the landscape of hills and rivers, of fields and for- 
ests, flying past her like the panoramic scenes of a fever- 
dream ; leaving far behind the home and husband in 
which she had lately been so blessed — home and husband 
hers no longer, but on which, shs felt remorsefully, she 
had thrown the shadow of her own fate. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

Weaet and heavy-hearted after her long journey, 
Melicent found herself at the door of her father’s house. 
All its elegant outdoor appointments were the same. 
The rich, dark-leaved shrubbery, the gleam of statues 
here and there, the fountain playing in the center of the 
small green square among the flowering oleanders, the 
l.’ons couchant at the entrance among the tropic plants — • 
all looked imchanged in the hazy light of the summer 
afternoon. Yet, since she had seen them last, what a 
change had passed over Melicent ! The old housekeeper, 
who came out to welcome her, noticed it at once. 

How pale and worn you look ! ” she said. “ You 


MAMIL 19Y 

must be tired to death. Go up to your old room and lie 
down, and let me bring you a cup of tea.” 

“ Where is my father, Mrs. Morris ? I thought he 
would meet me at the depot.” 

“ He was meaning to do so, miss ; but as he was get- 
ting in the carriage he had a note that called him away. 
I think I might guess who the note was from, and you 
know when a lady’s in the case, then all other things give 
place, especially if it’s the jparticula/r lady. Well, Mrs. 
Delavan is a very fine lady, you know — one of the very 
first. I think she wanted the Judge to go driving with 
her, to give her new horses a trial ; and he couldn’t say 
no, under the circumstances — ^you understand.” 

Melicent uttered a faint exclamation of surprise, but 
she was too languid to question Mrs. Morris as to the 
“ circumstances ” significantly alluded to ; so, to the house- 
keeper’s disappointment, she only said : 

“ I will not change my dress just now, Mrs. Morris. 
I will rest here on the library sofa until my father comes 
back. You can send me the tea, if you like.” 

She piled the pillows together and sank down up- 
on the wide, comfortable divan, while the housekeeper 
dropped the heavy green curtains and noiselessly with- 
drew. Lying there, with the familiar book-shelves around 
her, and the marble busts of Caesar and Pericles looking 
down upon her as they had done in other days, when she, 
her father’s companion in his hours of study as well as of 
relaxation, sat here with her needlework or her drawing 
materials, while he, in his handsome dressing-gown, sat 
upright in the arm-chair near by (he never reclined), and 
wrote or read, often stopping to make some comment or 
to read some passage aloud to her ; remembering this and 


198 


MAJ^CTt. 


recalling her father’s looks and voice, the dark thoughts 
and fears that had nearly driven her to the verge of mad- 
ness seemed to roll away from her mind like a cloud. 
When she heard at length her father’s step in the hall, 
her heart gave a throb of joy ; and when he stood in the 
doorway, she gave one glance at the pale, tine face, and, 
springing to him, clasped her arms about him, laid her 
head on his broad breast, and sobbed with hysteric pas- 
sion. He soothed her, gently stroking her forehead as he 
had been wont to do when she was a child. Suddenly 
she drew back and looked up into his face — an anxious, 
intent gaze — wild, eager, searching. His drooped eye- 
lids quivered a little, but his smile was calm and sweet. 

What is it, my daughter ? ” he asked gently. 

She answered by again dropping her head on his 
breast and weeping afresh, whispering : 

“ Oh ! I knew it could not be. Forgive me — ^forgive 
me, my father.” 

He sat down and drew her to his side. ' 

“ Tell me all,” he said, when she was at last calm. 

She went over again in detail all that she had told him 
in her letter. He listened silently, shading his eyes with 
his hand. . When she had ended, he said with grave ten- 
derness : 

“ You have acted with weakness, my daughter. That 
is now beyond recall, but happily not beyond remedy. 
It is fortunate that you have not betrayed your secret — 
and mine — to your husband. I will see Avery myself, 
and I think I can effect a reconciliation. I will write 
to-day and ask him to come here. In the mean time, 
remain with me until this cloud of trouble blows over. 
It will not seem strange that you have come at such 


MAJfCH. 199 

a time to pay me a visit on the occasion of my mar- 
riage.” 

He repeated the last words with emphasis before her 
wandering mind caught their meaning. Then she said 
half dreamily : 

“ Your marriage, father ? ” 

“To take place next week. You know the lady — 
Mrs. Andrew Delavan.” 

He paused for her to take in the full import of the 
communication. 

Yes, Melicent knew Mrs. Delavan — a showy, fashion- 
able woman, past middle age, but wealthy, possessed of 
influential family connections, and ambitious of social 
distinction. Once, the announcement of her father’s in- 
tended marriage would have been a disagreeable shock to 
Melicent ; but late experiences had numbed her capacity 
for feeling slight disappointments. Judge Weir resumed 
the subject : 

“ After my marfiage I shall remove from this house 
to Mrs. Delavan ’s residence, which is much larger and 
better located. I shall give up my present business and 
— probably — enter political life. I have accepted an un- 
important appointment that will serve me as the stepping- 
stone to better things. My inclination has always been 
for public life, but I had first to make money. Oold is 
the key to political power. I shall soon hold it in my 
hand.” 

His eye kindled as he spoke ; his voice, softly as it 
was modulated, had an undertone of excitement. Meli- 
cent had always suspected his inclination for the political 
arena. She had seen outfiashes of the fierce ambition 
that was latent within him— the desire for power, for 


200 


MAJTCH. 


rulership, which was in fact his master passion. Born 
orator as he was, with a faculty of magnetic influence, 
with keen insight into character, and a swift, strong will 
that carried obstacles before it, there was no reason that 
he should not succeed in his ambitious projects, now that 
he had wealth at his command. 

His eye dwelt upon Melicent anxiously. She knew 
he expected her sympathy, but her heart was too heavy to 
respond. She could not hail the rising star when her 
thoughts were so full of one that seemed setting in the 
darkness of ignominy, and of another that was being 
clouded at its zenith by the shadow of her own ill fate. 
He saw the change in her face and said : 

‘‘ You have worn yourself out fighting shadows, Meli- 
cent. Don’t go back to your Western home at all. There 
is no need that you should. No duty calls you there. 
Drop the brief, ill-starred period you passed there out 
from your life. Put its memories behind you. Enter 
upon a new phase of existence. Stay with me ; become 
the leading spirit of a bright, active coterie, with diplo- 
macy and tact for your watchwords. Help me to achieve 
political influence. Mrs. Delavan will ably second you ; 
but you, Melicent, are born to be first.” 

He put his hand upon her shoulder and looked at her, 
with the fire of his steady, resistless will burning in his 
eyes. For an instant its electric influence afiected her. 
Then her color, that had risen, faded slowly, and she said 
with sorrowful decision : 

“No, father, that can not be. I can not thrust the 
past out of sight ; it has too strong a grasp upon my heart. 
I will not wrong Mr. Avery by living with him again, 
even if I could bo made his lawful wife ; but I can never 


. MAMCH. 


^01 


forget that he loved me and that I have ruined his life. 
And there is another — N^eil Griffin. Surely, father, you 
understood me when I said the chief reason of my com- 
ing here was to get you to use every exertion in his be- 
half.” 

He stopped in his rapid walk about the room and 
faced her, frowning darkly. 

“ You are mad ! ” he exclaimed. “ What have you to 
do with him? You can not help him. Drop him at 
once ; let go this wreck that is drifting to destruction.” 

Melicent clasped her hands, shuddering. 

“But be is innocent,” she said, in low, strained tones. 

“ Of what avail is innocence that can not be proved ? 
How do you know that he is innocent ? Have you forgot- 
ten the evidence ? All will be ferreted out and brought 
up at the trial : the position in which he was found — the 
ring — the bloody knife — ” 

“ There was another knife,” said Melicent slowly, as 
though constrained to speak against her will. “Another 
knife has been found — another clew — ” 

“ Another knife ? "What knife ? What clew ? ” he 
interrupted, in hurried, agitated tones. Then he added, 
more composedly : “ Has anything new been discovered ? 
I trust it may prove to the poor fellow’s advantage.” 

Melicent sat still a moment ; then she quietly reached 
a hand satchel she had placed on the floor at her feet, and 
took from it a small package which she proceeded to un- 
roll. It contained the mysterious articles which Manch 
had found — the remnant of bloody vest, the stained silk 
handkerchief, the knife with the letters carved in the 
handle. Silently pointing to these, she raised her eyes 
to her father. For an instant he stared blankly at the 


202 


MAJfCH, 


contents of the package. Then the proud calm of his 
face was broken by a ghastly contortion. He drew a hard 
panting breath, and laid his hand upon the table as if to 
steady himself. Almost instantly these signs of agitation 
were over. He had regained his composure. He stood 
calmly looking at the unsightly objects, and asked : 

“ What are these ? Where and when were they found ? ” 

“JS^ot two weeks ago, in the hollow of the tree under 
which the murder was committed.” 

“ What have they to do with the murder ? They may 
have been put there lately. They may have a story un- 
connected with crime.” 

“ Look at the blade,” Melicent said, putting the knife 
in his hand. 

He shuddered as it touched his white, slender fingers. 

“ It is badly rusted,” he said carelessly, as he put it 
down and wiped his hand with his delicate cambric hand- 
kerchief. 

‘‘ It is rusted with blood,” said Melicent. 

“ Very likely. Some hunter cut the throat of a deer 
or bear he had wounded, put his knife in the hollow of 
the oak, and went away and forgot it. Did you really 
think the finding of these things more than eight years 
after the murder could be brought up as evidence in poor 
Heil’s favor? ” 

“ I — I do not know what to think ! ” muttered Meli- 
cent, looking at him with bewildered eyes. 

“ Think no more about it ! ” he said sternly. ‘‘ Do 
not meddle again in this cursed business, I command ^mu. 
You can do no good. The hand of Fate is in it. Keep 
away from this sinking wreck, or it will draw you down 
to destruction.” 


MAJ^CH. 


203 


Alas ! ” sighed Melicent, “ I feel I too am a wreck. 
The hand of Fate is upon me also.” 

He grasped her arm and drew her to him. He looked 
in her face with set mouth and eyes afire. ^ 

“ You ! ” he cried ; ‘‘ you — my daughter, and talk like 
that ! You sink down weakly and succumb to Fate ! 
Struggle against it — defy it as I have done. Lift up your 
head, Melicent — this beautiful, proud head that seems 
made for a crown. Hever let it he bowed down by the 
evil genius of my race. It has hounded me all my life, 
but I have fought against it, and will to the last. I will 
rise superior to Fate.” 

His raised hand fell with emphasis upon the table. 
He started — it had struck the sinister knife, the fragment 
of blood-stained handkerchief. Instantly the fire went 
out of his eyes ; a gray shadow came over his face. He 
clinched the ill-omened bundle in his hand and said fierce- 

ly: 

“Burn this miserable, moldy trash! It looks like 
the clap-trap of a voodoo conjurer.” 

But his spirit did not rise to its proud pitch again. 
He sat down and was silent and pale, looking down with 
compressed lips and a stern sadness on his brow. At 
length he raised his eyes and gazed earnestly at Melicent. 

“My love,” he said, “it grieves me to see you so 
changed. You have shed many tears, Melicent, since I 
saw you last. You have laid bitter blame on your old fa- 
ther, no doubt. You do not love me any more, my daugh- 
ter.” 

That look, that voice ! Melicent’s heart would have 
sprung to meet it through all the barriers Fate could in- 
terpose. Unable to utter a word, torn by conflicting feel- 




204 

ings, she knelt down at his knees. Silently he caressed 
her head, her neck, throbbing with the emotion that 
quivered through her frame. As he looked down at her, 
his face became transformed. His brow knotted into 
wrinkles, the lines deepened about his mouth, his cheeks 
seemed shrunken. He looked ten years older than he 
had done a few moments before. 

A knock at the door roused him. He lifted his head, 
and his face resumed its usual expression. He raised 
Melicent and placed her in a seat beside him as the door 
was opened by a servant. 

“ The groom wishes to know at what hour you will 
have the carriage at the door.” 

“ Half -past eight,” was the answer ; and then as the 
servant retired he turned to Melicent and said : 

“ I am sorry to leave you, my dear ; but I shall not be 
gone over an hour. A little select reunion at Mrs. Dela- 
van’s. Some distinguished relatives of hers are in the 
dtj en passant, and she is anxious I should meet them. 
I promised to look in for a moment only. I was spe- 
cially charged to bring you if you should have arrived this 
evening. If you could feel equal to dressing and bright- 
ening up — ” 

‘‘ Oh ! no,” protested Melicent. “ Go, of course ; do 
not mind me ; I shall be better here.” 

You must rest, then. Sleep, and let dreams prophesy 
a bright future for you. I will go now and make some 
changes in my dress.” 

He drew her to him, kissed her forehead, and left the 
room. At the door he seemed to stumble, then Melicent 
saw him stagger, and springing to him she caught him in 
her arms. A spasm contracted his features for an instant. 


MAJfCH. 


205 


“ What is it, father ? ” she asked anxiously. 
“hTothing,” he answered, after a short hesitation. 

A slight vertigo ; it is not unusual.” 

' He put up his hand with his handkerchief in it to his 
forehead, but let it drop so hurriedly that Melicent looked 
and caught the gleam of the snake-skin fragment and the 
outlined shape of the knife wrapped closely round with 
folds of cambric handkerchief. 

He kissed her again, this time upon her lips, and en- 
joined her to come down with brighter looks to-morrow. 
She followed him wdth her wistful, doubting gaze till the 
door of his dressing-room closed upon his tall figure, and 
then, sighing heavily, went, not to her room to rest, but 
back to the library to sink down in her father’s arm-chair 
and stare in wretched bewilderment at the marble-faced 
Caesar on the mantel. Weary, perplexed, tortured in 
spirit, she was half ready to give herself up passively to 
her father’s will — to let him turn her thoughts, her life 
into new channels if he could. 

If I had but his will — his bold energy ! ” she thought. 

He says truly — he will rise superior to fate. Oh ! it is 
not — it can not be so. He could not face life so boldly 
if — ” 

A loud cry startled her from her reflections. It echoed 
through the still house. Another ! Melicent rushed out 
into the haU. A servant ran by her, crying : 

“ It is in my master’s room ! ” 

She followed precipitately, burst into her father’s 
chamber, and beheld him clinging to the bed-post, his 
face purple and frightfully distorted, his eyes staring. 
What was it in that sight which made the scene under 
the “ Gallows Tree ” rush upon her memory, coupled 


206 


MAJ^CH. 


with the thought : “ This face is like his that night ; it is 
the face of a man dying by hanging ” ? 

As they approached, he glared at them with glassy 
terror in his eyes, then suddenly loosed his hold and fell 
heavily to the floor. 


CHAPTEK Xy. 

Apoplexy had suddenly smitten the strong, proud 
man at the moment when his hand was outstretched to 
grasp the goal to which he had so long aspired. During 
that long night and the succeeding day he lay uncon- 
scious — only his deep, stertorous breathing giving token 
that he lived. But his strong constitution rallied. The 
day following he unclosed his eyes and moved slightly. 
The physician said, in answer to Melicent’s entreaty to 
let her know the worst : 

“ He will live, but I can not give you hope that he 
will be fully restored. Paralysis has supervened. His 
physical powers will never be the same.” 

“ And his mind ? ” 

“ I fear it will never recover from the shock.” 

“Will he always continue in this state — this semi- 
conscious, dreamy condition — taking no notice of what 
is said or done around him ? ” 

“ I fear he will — for the present. Time may restore 
the healthy action of the brain ; and there are instances 
where a counter-shock — some unexpected circumstance 
of danger, grief, or joy — ^has seemed to electrify the 
numbed faculties into sudden life.” 

Melicent turned away sick at heart. It was anguish 


MAKCH, 


20Y 


to see the father she had idolized a victim to this death- 
in-life. It was awful to behold this proud, intellectual, 
ambitious man reduced almost to idiocy — sitting propped 
with pillows in his bed or in an easy-chair, with his head 
drooping listlessly, his eyes half closed, opening some- 
times with a vacant stare ; partaking food readily when 
it was given him, but never speaking, unless it was in 
the vague, half-articulate mumble he uttered in reply to 
Melicent’s anxious questioning. The first intelligible 
sentence he uttered was a shock to Melicent. He had 
been looking around in the vacant, bewildered way that 
had become habitual to him, when his eye rested upon 
his old rifle — the only relic he had of the past — sus- 
pended against the wall above his bed. He pointed to it 
with his left hand (he had not recovered the use of his 
right). 

Bi-ing her to me, Milly,” he muttered ; I’ll rub her 
up a bit.” 

It was a moment before Melicent comprehended 
him ; then she took down the old rifle and brought it to 
him, watching his feeble, futile attempts to clean the 
rust from the lock and trigger. He shook his head sadly 
at length, and handed the gun back to Melicent. 

I’ll try her another time. Don’t forget to feed the 
dogs, Milly.” 

Milly ! ” He had never once called her by that name 
since their changed identities. He had gone back in 
mind to the old life at Bear’s Bend. Melicent sat and 
watched him, drearily wondering at the revenges and 
punishments of Fate. He had thought to rid himself of 
the distasteful past, to cast it off as a tree does its dead 
leaves, and put forth the vigor and energy of his being 


208 


MAXCH. 


in a new existence. And lo ! here was the old life come 
back, and fastening itself upon him, to abide until the 
end ! His dreams of wealth and fame had vanished like 
mist; and now the restless, seeking glance sees only 
the old gun that had been his trusty companion in the 
wild Western woods ; now the mind that had grasped at 
the honors of statesmanship hovered vaguely over the 
thought of his hounds, and the lips that had seemed pro- 
phetic of grand forensic utterances now feebly entreated 
“ Milly ” to care for his dogs. 

Melicent mused wearily over these things as she sat 
and held her father’s hand, and watched the look of con- 
fused, childish distress that had come over his face when 
he found he could not handle his gun as of yore, fade into 
the dull vacancy that had become his habitual expression. 
His head slowly nodded as he sat before the fire, still 
keeping hold of Meli cent’s hand, as if that were the one 
plank that kept him from drowning. He clung to her 
as an infant to its mother, and kept up a low, querulous 
muttering whenever she was out of sight. He seemed 
not to recognize or to care for any one else. A few days 
after his sudden attack, the lady who would soon have 
been his bride drove up to the door in her handsome 
carriage, and rustled into the half-darkened room, where 
she performed a courtesy for Melicent’s benefit, and then 
seating herself, proceeded to scrutinize the invalid, 
through her eye-glass, in the most deliberate manner. 
Then she examined Melicent and asked a few questions 
relative to the “ sad affair,” while she twisted the brace- 
let upon her arm and eyed the clasp as if she had never 
seen it before. When she rose to go, she gave the droop- 
ing, unregardful figure in the arm-chair another rapid 


MAJfCH, 209 

scrutiny chrough her glass, and shrugging her velvet-clad 
shoulders, remarked : 

“Dear me ! what a wreck! Ah ! this sad husiness — 
how it has aged him ! He looks quite old,” glancing at 
her own well-preserved face in the mirror. 

It was Mrs. Delavan’s only visit. She came no more. 

Melicent received similar “ calls ” from a few of her 
former fashionable acquaintances and some of the butter- 
fly friends of her girlhood, who offered their condolences 
and informed Melicent that she was looking like a ghost. 
Of heart-felt sympathy and kindly help she received none. 
Her constant attendance on her father was lightened only 
by the assistance of a servant. 

Other troubles came upon her. She found that her 
father was a bankrupt. He had risked and lost his for- 
tune in large speculations, and his establishment had 
been kept up for some time past upon borrowed money. 
That had now to be repaid, with heavy interest. He had 
intended to do this and to reinstate himself by his mar- 
riage wdth the rich Mrs. Delavan. 

Melicent learned from her father’s lawyer that there 
was nothing to he done — that the house, furniture, plate, 
everything, must go. An inventory was taken, the prop- 
erty was advertised to he sold, and the day appointed for 
the sale to take place. The servants belonging to the 
household all went save a single faithful old retainer. 
Melicent was pennitted to occupy two rooms of the 
house until her father was able to he removed. Re- 
moved where ? The question, which hut vaguely oc- 
curred at first to her bewildered mind, now pressed itself 
upon her more distinctly as the days went by and the 
time drew near when she would be forced to depart. 


210 


MAJ^CB. 


Yet no one came to offer even a temporary home to the 
helpless man and the delicate woman. What should she 
do ? She had sent all the money which she had in her 
possession, which was only a hundred-dollar bill, in a let- 
ter to old Hagar, in which she entreated her to engage 
a lawyer to defend I^eil. She made no explanation, ex- 
cept that she was interested in the case of “ Ishmael ” 
because of her friendship for Manch. This was the best 
she could do. There was no other person in Alluvia of 
whom she was willing to make such a request. She 
had now no resource but her jewelry, which she had al- 
ready deposited at a pawn-broker’s office, and had drawn 
upon it the money now being consumed in food, medi- 
cine, physician’s attendance, and numerous other neces- 
saries. 

It was the day before the one appointed for the sale 
of the house and furniture — a dark and dreary afternoon, 
with rain blurring the gloomy prospect of dripping eaves, 
muddy streets, and forlorn -looking passers. Melicent and 
her father sat around the dull fire that the chilliness of 
the afternoon made necessary. The invalid was occupied 
in making some calculation that seemed to have come in- 
to his enfeebled mind, for he counted his fingers over and 
over, and moved his lips as if reckoning numbers. Meli- 
cent was engaged in sewing, but her tlioughts were not 
upon the work her hands executed. They were busy 
revolving the changes and cruelties of her lot ; they were 
looking earnestly forward to discover some ray of hope. 
She had not heard of her Western home except through 
the two letters she had received from Manch ; very short 
and concise they were, for the writing of them had been 
an herculean task to the boy. In the last one he had told 


MAJ^CR. 


211 


her that the trial of Ishmael “ would come off next Mon- 
day.” “ It is then over by this time,” thought Melicent. 
“ Oh ! if I could know the result ! ” 

She feared the worst. She knew that Colonel Archer 
would leave nothing undone to convict the man he be- 
lieved to be his father’s murderer. She knew what an 
array of damning evidence could be brought up against 
the prisoner, and how little could be said in his defense. 
Manch’s last letter had told of employing a lawyer who 
shook his head and looked glum when granny stated 
the case to him.” 

“ Must I tell him about the things I found in the hol- 
low tree ? And if they’re any use, won’t you send ’em 
by the express ? ” added Manch. 

When she read this, Melicent wrung her hands ‘ in 
perplexed agitation. Those things found in the hollow 
limb of Gallows Oak ” — where were they ? They were 
nowhere to be found. She had seen her father snatch them 
up contemptuously, calling them voodoo trash ” ; she 
had seen him leave her presence with the package in his 
hand, while she, wrought upon by his subtile, controlling 
influence, made no remonstrance. Most likely he had 
destroyed them, as he had commanded her to do — burned 
them as soon as he entered the room. In the dismay 
that accompanied his sudden attack immediately after- 
ward, and in the confused trouble that had succeeded, 
she had forgotten the mysterious package until it was 
recalled by Manch’s letter. Then she had searched for 
it in vain. But, had she found it, would she have sent 
it to be produced at the trial ? Could she have done so, 
fearing and feeling what she did? It would have been 
a trying thing to decide. 


212 


MAJVCB. 


Inclosed in Manch’s letter was a slip cut from one of 
the weekly papers in Alluvia. It was a eulogy of ‘‘ Our 
Gallant Young Mayor.” The editor said : 

“ He will yet put his enemies and detractors to shame. 
His speech yesterday was a grand effort — a triumph to 
his friends, a blow to his foes. Last night he appeared 
for a short time at the hall given by the ‘ True and Tried 
Society,’ at the City Hall. He was presented by Miss 
Arabella Brad well with a laurel wreath, beautifully 
formed out of wax by the fair fingers of the lovely belle. 
He responded to her poetical encomium by a brilliant 
and gallant little speech.” 

Then she had not ruined his life, after all ; then he 
was still prosperous and honored. His admiring friends 
— females especially — no doubt applauded his desertion 
of “ that creature ” his wife, and congratulated him upon 
being rid of her. 

“It is well,” thought Melicent, pressing her hand 
upon her drearily aching heart — “ it is well that he has 
been able to thrust aside all thought of me from his life 
as he would an obstacle from his path. It is well that I 
have not done him such bitter harm — ^that I have only 
tinged his history with a shade of melancholy that his 
commiserating lady admirers will think interesting and 
romantic. All the pain and all the shame be mine.” 

She sat still and listened to the moaning of the 
wind and the dull fall of the rain without, and saw her 
father mumbling in his arm-chair, and the old black 
attendant nodding comfortably in her comer upon the 
fioor. A knock at the door aroused her. 

“ It is the man with the coal I ordered to-day ; go 
and let him in, Martha,” Melicent said. And then she 


MAJ^CH, 


213 


relapsed into bitter musings, and did not look up when 
Martha reentered the room, accompanied by a man — did 
not look up until a voice near her said : 

“ Melicent ! ” 

Then, with a wild, glad cry, she sprang to her feet, 
and would have thrown herself into the arms of her hus- 
band if those arms had not been tightly folded under his 
cloak, and the cold look and attitude had not utterly re- 
pelled her. She shrank back — the emotion of joy checked 
and recoiling upon her so suddenly that it inflicted the 
keenest pang. She recovered herself after a moment, and 
pointing to a seat, said : 

“There is my father. You have heard of his con- 
dition, perhaps.” 

He held out his hand to the invalid. The old man 
put his trembling left hand reluctantly out and looked 
up blinkingly at the tall figure and into the proud, hand- 
some face. Then he shook his head, as if he disapproved 
of the new-comer for mysterious reasons, and began to 
call “ Milly ” in his childish, tremulous tones. She came 
and sat down by him, and laid her hand on his. 

Mr. Avery, from his seat on the opposite side of 
the fireplace, regarded the two in silence. At last he 
said : 

“ I regret to see the change in your father’s health, 
and to learn the alteration in his fortune. I knew of 
both through the papers, and came on as soon as possible 
for the purpose of inducing you and your father to go 
back with me to my home in Alluvia. This house will 
be sold to-morrow. It is no place for you now.” 

A flush shot up into Melicent’s white cheek. 

“Your home is no place for me, Mr. Avery,” she 


214 


MAJTCH. 


said, since I have no place in yonr confidence or jour 
esteem. It is impossible to accept jour offer.” 

“ Think of it again,” he answered. You have an 
invalid father, who has been accustomed to every luxury, 
as you have also. You have no money, and the money- 
less have few friends. Come to my house. You shall 
have everything you want for yourself and for him, and 
I will not intrude upon you in any way — will not annoy 
you with my presence. Let considerations of duty to 
your father influence you. Come for the present ; let it 
be a temporar}^ arrangement if you wish. You have 
some property there — ^your furniture, silver, clothes, your 
horse and other things — which you will need to take with 
you or to dispose of.” 

Send me such of the things as can be packed and 
keep the rest,” said Melicent hurriedly. “ I thank you 
for the offer of a shelter, but it would humiliate me to 
accept it. I can not receive a favor from one who wrongs 
me in his heart.” 

He looked earnestly into her face — at the pale brow 
thrown back and the dark eyes underneath, flashing 
through their unshed tears. 

“ Do I wrong you, Melicent ? ” he uttered. “ Would 
to God I could believe it ! ” 

The trembling passion in his voice wrought upon her 
far more than his appeals to her in the name of duty and 
self-interest had done. Still looking at her, he went on, 
sinking his voice to a deeper tone : 

“ The feeling that I can not believe it makes me the 
most unhappy man on earth.” 

“Unhappy?” she echoed bitterly. “The admired 
and courted candidate — cynosure of ballrooms and public 


MAJfCH. 


215 


assemblies —recipient of ladies’ smiles and laurel crowns — 
unhappy?” 

“ So unhappy,” he answered slowly, ‘^that when, four 
days ago, I saw a man condemned to the gallows, I felt 1 
could almost change places with him, and accept a death 
of shame rather than a life of torturing recollections, 
of heart-souring doubts, and aching loneliness.” 

Melicent caught at the intermediate words. 

“ Condemned to the gallows ! ” she exclaimed, her 
voice eager and trembling. “ Who was it you saw con- 
demned ? ” 

“A poor wretch who had long eluded justice,” he 
answered listlessly ; the murderer of Archer’s father, 
nearly nine years ago. There was no doubt of his guilt. 
The evidence against him was overwhelming — the defense 
a mere nothing ; and yet — ” 

‘‘ What ? ” Melicent found voice to ask. 

“ His manner of receiving the verdict was another 
proof of how guilt can wear the mask of innocence,” he 
said, looking at her with stern significance. “ The mur- 
derer’s countenance was calm, with even a sweet resig- 
nation in its expression. And when the sentence was 
pronounced, he did not seem to heed it ; he was occupied 
in trying to quiet a boy — his child, I suppose— who threw 
the court into confusion, rushed up to the bench and shook 
his fist at judge and jury, and launched upon them a tor- 
rent of childish abuse. Then he made his way to the 
prisoner and fell into his arms, sobbing and clinging to 
him so that he could hardly be torn away. It was a strik- 
ing scene.” 

He described it as if involuntarily — as if the im- 
pression it had made had been so vivid that he could not 


21G 




help a passing allusion, although the subject was foreign 
to that which now engaged his mind. 

Melicent had turned away and walked to the window. 
She stood there, pressing both her hands upon her breast, 
setting her teeth together in the effort to keep down the 
cry of agony that struggled for utterance. That picture 
of Neil’s martyr-like endurance, of his sentence to an 
awful death, of poor Manch’s despair — it was more than 
she could bear. Was there nothing to be done? No new 
trial to be obtained, no pardon to be procured ? Should 
she let him suffer unjustly that fearful death — she, who 
knew him to be innocent ? At least, she could see him ; 
she could find what had been done, and what might be 
attempted. 

It was long before she could speak. When she did 
so, she turned around and said in a voice of unnatural 
calmness : 

“ I have decided to go with you, Mr. Avery. When 
do you wish to leave ? ” 

“ To-morrow on the nine-o’clock train. I must re- 
turn now to the hotel. I have business that must be 
attended to to-night.” 

He was gone. From the window she watched him 
disappear in the rainy twilight. She sank down on her 
knees, and with raised, clasped hands cried wildly: 

“ J list God, be merciful ! He must not die this shame- 
ful death — so innocent, so pitiful, so nobly self-sacrificing ! 
Save my life from the burden of remorse that this death 
will bring upon it ! ” 


MAJYCH, 


2n 


CHAPTEK XYI. 

Three weeks had gone by — weeks of bitter trial to 
Melicent — of wearing suspense and forced inaction — of 
final despair. She passed through this dreary period un- 
cheered by any sympathy save that of Manch. Xo one 
but Manch and the old servant who had accompanied her 
ever entered her room. Mr. Avery had given up to her 
use the second floor of his house. He had all her physi- 
cal wants attended to — meals of choice food, with wine 
and fruit, sent up to her regularly ; but he never once 
ascended the stairs himself, nor sent a kindly message, a 
book, or other delicate token, to show that his care in 
providing for her proceeded from any warmer feeling than 
duty, pride, or perhaps pity. A few of her former ac- 
quaintances called to see her, but she shrank utterly from 
encountering their looks of cold curiosity or contempt- 
uous pity. As she looked out ovor the town from the 
window of her room, she recoiled with almost morbid 
dread from the thought of going down into the streets 
and encountering their curious or scornful stare. It was 
long before she could even bring herself to glide down at 
dusk into the garden, and walk there like a ghost among 
the flowers she had loved, touching her hot lips to the 
cool faces of the roses and oleanders, and drawing in their 
perfume with passionate eagerness, as though they brought 
some breath of life and hope to her worn spirit. Except 
those few twilight moments spent in the garden, all her 
hours were passed in the secluded rooms up stairs, minis- 
tering to the half-torpid being who was her only com- 
panion. She would never have left this seclusion but for 
10 


£18 


MAJsTE. 


the harrowing thought, the haunting picture of one who 
languished on the hard floor of a dungeon, condemned to 
suffer in a few weeks a terrible death. This thought, 
goading her to agony, drove her out into the street and 
into the office of the lawyer who had been employed in 
Neil’s defense, to see what could be done to save him. 

But she soon found that her efforts would be of no 
avail. The lawyer met her anxious questions with frigid 
assurances that the case was closed. There was no ground 
on which to obtain a second trial. The evidence against 
the prisoner had been too strong ; the people’s indignation 
had been too much aroused by the aggravated character 
of the crime ; and superadded to this was the long-stand- 
ing prejudice against the accused on account of his father, 
an executed felon, and his mother, a savage nuisance 
known as Old Hagar, the "Wildcat.” 

The prosecution had it all their own way,” said Mr. 
Quip — a slim, sallow personage, with an impertinent nose 
and his hair parted in the middle — as he tapped his seal 
ring with the ivory paper-cutter and eyed Melicent curi- 
ously — “ all their own way. They brought in a couple 
of fellows who testified to having come upon the accused, 
stooping over the body of the murdered man, with a 
bloody knife — prisoner’s own knife, produced and proved 
in court — in his ‘ red right hand.’ It was furthermore 
proved, by the testimony of these witnesses and several 
others, that the prisoner confessed to having seen and 
known the murderer, but refused to tell who he was — an 
idiotic procedure that told strongly against him, because 
of its absurd untruth. The murdered man had spent the 
night with the prisoner — had shown him his treasure and 
the manner in which it was concealed. No one else in 


MAJ{CH, 


219 


the settlement knew of the miner, or of his possessing 
any wealth. And, to crown all, the accused at the time of 
his first arrest had in his possession a rough diamond ring 
that his own wife acknowledged had been shown to them 
by the man who was killed. Find me a tougher case, 
madam, if you can. I might have brought him ofi by plead- 
ing an alibi, had not his brother acknowledged to his 
lady-love that the pretended Ishmael was Neil Griffin, 
who it was supposed had been hung ; and the prisoner in- 
sanely owned the same upon his arrest and afterward. So 
you see there is not the slightest hope of a change in 
verdict, even if we should succeed in obtaining a fresh 
trial.” 

“ But a petition to the Governor,” faltered Melicent ; 
“ would there not be some hope in that ? ” 

“ Not the slightest,” said the oracular Mr. Quip, bit- 
ing the end of a cigar. “ He wouldn’t look at it unless 
there were plenty of signatures, and in this case it is 
doubtful if we could get one.” 

Melicent sat with downcast eyes and listened with 
the calmness of despair. Again she looked up, her coun- 
tenance more agitated than at any time before. 

But if fresh evidence in favor of the accused could 
be brought up ? ” she asked, her voice husky and hesi- 
tating. 

“ Ah ! ” the lawyer said, becoming more attentive. 
‘‘ That would make a difference.” 

Then Melicent told him of the finding by Manch of 
the bloody handkerchief, knife, and vest in the hollow of 
the tree under which the murder had been committed. 

“ Can these things be produced ? ” he asked. 

“I have seen them; they were in my possession,” 


220 


MAJS'CH. 


Melicent answered ; “ but they have disappeared. I have 
not yet been able to find them.” 

He put the tip of his forefinger to liis forehead in 
meditative style. 

“ The finding, near the place of the murder, but more 
than eight years after it was committed, of a rusty knife, 
a stained handkerchief, and a bit of vest similar to that 
worn by the man who was killed, is worth nothing, unless 
the vest be identified as a piece of the one the miner wore 
at the time of the murder, and the other things be proved 
to have belonged to some person whom there is reason to 
suspect. Even in this case, the evidence would be but as 
a shadow weighed against the solid testimony on the 
other side ; for would it not be urged as plausible that 
the accused, or one of his friends, had these things thus 
marked put in this concealment and found, or pretended 
to be found, by this boy — a kinsman of the prisoner — his 
sister’s child, I believe, and known to be devotedly at- 
tached to him ? His evidence would not be worth a dried 
pea. Ho, madam,” continued the lawyer, rising and fac- 
ing Melicent, ‘‘ I don’t consider there is any probability 
of the prisoner’s acquittal, even if we could succeed in 
gaining him a new trial or in putting off the execution. 
I regret to inform you of this, seeing that you seem great- 
ly and — pardon me — strangely interested in the case.” 

His manner was indifferent. Evidently he supposed 
there was not much profit to accrue to him from any fur- 
ther attention to this case. He knew Melicent’s history, 
and that she was no longer the indulged wife of the rich 
mayor, with money at her command to gratify every ca- 
price, even the very singular one of saving a poor devil’s 
neck from the rope. He was burning with curiosity to 


MAJ^CB. 


221 


know why this case should interest a beautiful, high-bred 
woman like Melicent. He looked in her face with in- 
tense scrutiny as he repeated : 

‘‘ Yery strangely interested indeed.” 

Melicent gave no thought to him. She rose and drew 
her veil down over her pale face and weary, dark eyes, 
and, bowing slightly, left the lawyer to his conjectures. 

What now should she do ? She had wild thoughts of 
an interview with the Governor — of moving him by her 
earnest assertion of the prisoner’s innocence, and obtain- 
ing, if not a pardon, at least a reprieve or a commutation 
of sentence. But the Governor was absent ; he had gone 
to Washington City, and she had not money enough to 
seek him, nor could she leave her father for so long a 
time. All she could do would be to write to him an 
earnest, eloquent letter — as brief as might be, but express- 
ing her firm conviction of the prisoner’s innocence, with 
many of her reasons for believing it. She would remind 
the Governor of the danger of admitting circumstantial 
evidence, however strong, when life and death were con- 
cerned. She would draw a truthful picture of what the 
prisoner had suffered— of his first condemnation and par- 
tial hanging by the mob— of his fiight and wandering, 
poor and friendless, in many places — of his broken health, 
his patience and gentleness of nature. She resolved to 
close her letter by an eloquent appeal to the Governor to 
grant a pardon, or at least a reprieve, to this innocent 
and deeply wronged man. She revolved this letter in 
her mind as she hurried along the street, after leaving the 
office of the lawyer. 

When she entered her room, she found Manch there, 
sitting by her father’s arm-chair and engaged in some 


22^ 


MAJfCH. 


work that seemed to be of great interest to the old 
gentleman. He looked up delightedly as Melicent ap- 
proached, and she saw that Manch had taken down the 
old rifle, and was giving her the thorough overhauling 
which her owner had attempted without success. 

In these dark days, the only comfort that came to 
Melicent was through the daily visits of Manch. Usual- 
ly he came every morning and helped her awhile in her 
care for her father — wheeling him about the room, or 
giving him his breakfast, or performing other little offices 
which the invalid would not permit any one else to do 
for him except Melicent. Often Manch would come in 
quietly and sit by Melicent almost in silence, which she 
recognized as a sign that he had just seen Ishmael, and 
that his heart was too full for him to talk even to her. 
Ishmael was the usual subject of conversation between 
them when they sat together, with the paralytic on the 
other side, his lame hand lying on Melicent’s lap and 
gently rubbed by her fingers, while his eyes watched her 
every movement with the half-pleased, unconscious stare 
that one sees in an infant. On the table beside them 
there was always a bunch of flowers in a glass of water. 
These were for Manch to take with him when he went 
away. They were destined to shed their sweetness in a 
dungeon. Manch prevailed upon the jailer to take them 
to the prisoner when he carried in his food. The boy 
had once told Melicent how much pleasure a rose he had 
taken to Ishmael had seemed to give him j and ever af- 
terward Melicent had stolen down at twilight, when the 
dew had freshened the flowers, and gathered a handful 
of the most fragrant for Manch to take at his early visit. 
The boy was now in the service of the jailer, and worked 


MdJfCH. 


2^3 


to the utmost of his slender strength, in the narrow, 
dirty yard, for the privilege of being allowed to see his 
friend. Melicent found this out accidentally soon after 
her return. She was sitting with his little, thin, sun- 
burned hand in hers, when, feeling some irregularities in 
the palm, she looked and found them to be blisters. 

“ How have you burned your hand so, Manch ? ” she 
asked. 

“ It ain’t a burn,” he answered, blushing. “ The axe 
is most too heavy for a light-weight chap like me.” 

“ Why does not Gabriel cut wood for your granny ? 
It is very hard in him to put it on you.” 

‘‘ Oh, it isn’t granny that the wood’s for. It’s for 
Mr. Sampson.” 

“ Mr. Sampson, the jailer ? ” 

“ Yes, ’um. He lets me take a jug of water to Ish- 
mael sometimes, and I does jobs for him in the yard, and 
garden, and stable.” 

“ You, Manch, so slight and delicate ! — ^you, that love 
the free, green woods so well ! ” said Melicent, looking at 
him with tears in her eyes. 

‘‘I love Ishmael better,” answered the boy; “and 
Mr. Sampson made objection to letting me in while I 
staid at granny’s. He said I was ‘ a chip of the old block,’ 
and might carry a bit of file, or a saw, or a knife in my 
mouth or my sleeve (as if poor Ishmael would use ’em if I 
did take sich things to him) ; but if I was stayin’ with him 
in his house and workin’ about his yard, Mr. Sampson said 
he’d feel safe enough to take me with him when he car- 
ried in the bread and water. I think it kinder cheers Ish- 
mkel and keeps life in him to see me. Anyhow, I can’t 
stay away. His face keeps followin’ me, day and night ; 


m 


MAKCB. 


sleepin’ or wakin’, it’s right afore me, with the eyes so 
big and strange-lookin’ now since he’s so wasted away.” 

“ Is he so thin ? ” asked Melicent. 

“Worn to a shadow,” returned the boy, looking up at 
her with mournful eyes. 

“ Oh, Manch, you should get him to eat some of the 
things I send, and to take exercise — to walk briskly about 
the room.” 

“ He don’t like to hear the chains clanking,” said the 
boy, looking down and speaking low. “ He’s chained, 
you know.” 

“ Chained ! ” cried Melicent, with a piteous look into 
the child's face. “ O God ! ” 

She dropped her face upon her hands and shuddered. 
She must have known that it was customary to chain con- 
demned prisoners, but she had not before had the picture 
brought up to her mind of “ Ishmael,” the gentle-hearted, 
chained like a savage beast — unable to move his limbs 
without hearing the clank of the cruel fetters ! She felt 
so keenly how the sound must grate on the sensitive spirit 
of that simple, uncomplaining, but deep-feeling nature. 

The poor paralytic in the arm-chair watched her dis- 
tress with a look of dim trouble in his face. Finally, 
he put out his hand and patted her bowed head. 

“ Don’t cry, Milly,” he said ; “ don’t cry. Be a good 
girl, Milly, and I’ll make a lady of you yet.” 

And then when Melicent did not speak, he burst into 
tears, and began to rock himself back and forth, mutter- 
ing, “ O me ! O me ! ” until Melicent put aside her own 
trouble and soothed him, getting him his glass of Sangor, 
and then sitting by him and singing the old songs he used 
to love. 


MAJ^CH. 


225 


CHAPTER XYIL 

The dreaded day rolled near — the day when “ Ish- 
mael ” should die upon the gallows. Melicent counted 
the days, and each one as it passed added heavier weight 
to her burden of distress — distress to which was added 
self-reproach, because she had made no effort to save 
him. She had a feeling sometimes as if she ought to go 
out and proclaim her conviction of his innocence, and all 
her reasons for believing it, even if those reasons should 
criminate another. 

But what proof had she of his innocence? Xone. 
And what proof had she of the guilt of another ? Xone ; 
none but creeping suspicions, that sometimes coiled them- 
selves fold by fold about her with the strength of con- 
victions, and at other times — at the sound of a voice or 
the touch of a hand — shrank away and hid themselves in 
feelings of remorseful shame and pitying tenderness. 

She had written the letter to the Governor of the 
State, which she projected — written it from her heart, 
with all the fervor and earnestness of strong feeling, and 
yet with ingenuity of representation that told of a subtile 
brain. In truth, the letter was a masterpiece of persua- 
sion. She waited long for a reply. It came at last, 
wi-itten by the Governor’s own hand — a polite but firm 
refusal. He had examined into the merits of the case 
since receiving her communication, and had not been 
able to find any ground for a change of verdict. He 
most respectfully but decidedly declined to interfere with 
the sentence already passed by granting the prisoner a 
reprieve, 


226 


MAKCm 


After this, Melicent made no further effort. Under 
other conditions she might have been more active, but 
late experiences had crushed down much of the buoyant 
energy of her nature. A despondent torpor crept over 
her, and she sat at her window and watched the days 
bloom and fade, and felt, as Ishmael had said, that life 
was “ not much, after all,” and said gloomily, “ Fate will 
be accomplished.” 

Still, almost unconsciously, she cherished the hope 
that something would take place to prevent the execu- 
tion. Surely it could not be ! God would not suffer 
such a terrible wrong to be done. Something would oc- 
cur to prove Neil’s innocence. 

But the day before the one appointed for his death 
arrived, and nothing had occurred. Melicent watched 
the waning of that day as if it were her last. She was 
alone with her father; there was not even Manch to 
comfort her. When he came that morning, he would 
only stay a few minutes, and when she pressed him to 
remain longer, he answered : 

‘‘Imust go to him. They have given me. leave to 
stay with him all day.” 

Melicent pictured the two to herself — as they sat in 
the gloom of the dungeon, holding each other’s hands — 
in sad little talk about life, and death, and heaven ; about 
Manch’s future, the need of his always being true and 
honest, and of his trying to keep down his fiery little 
temper for his (Ishmael’s) sake, and of his chances to 
pick up an education, that Ishmael was so anxious he 
should have. They would speak of her, and Ishmael 
would send her a parting message. What if he knew 
that she was his Milly— the child-wife he had loved so 


MAKCH. 


227 


dearly and whose memory was so sacred to him now ? 
Would it comfort him to know it? No; it was better, 
far better as it was. Of what use would it be to mar the 
sweet and pure image of her that now lived in his soul ? 
— the memory of the loving bride, the image of the 
angel Milly that should greet him beyond the shadow of 
death — of that awful death he was to die! No; she 
would not mar this sweet memory — she would not blot 
this cherished hope by showing him his Milly living, 
changed, married to another, a sad and stricken woman. 

One thing made itself apparent even to Melicent’s 
preoccupied mind : there was a change in her father. He 
had for several days seemed to be more restless — to take 
more notice of what was going on around him. Silent 
notice it was, for his mutterings had gradually ceased. 
To-day he seemed to Melicent to be watching her con- 
stantly and covertly, with a gleam of intelligent con- 
sciousness in his half shut eyes. He had been more than 
ordinarily wakeful. At last he slept, or seemed to sleep, 
and Melicent stole out for her usual visit to the garden. 

Twilight had deepened into dusk, the moon was shin- 
ing through a thin veil of clouds, as she glided about 
among the flower-beds and gathered for Ishmael his last 
bouquet — the pale jasmines and tea-roses, the pansies 
and violets that he loved— that would next morning 
carry him their last message of consolation. Would he 
guess how her hot tears had fallen upon their fresh 
leaves ? No, he would never suspect what an intensity 
of pity and of self-reproachful anguish filled her heart 
for him. 

When the flowers were gathered, she had reached the 
lower end of the garden, where there was a sunamer- 


228 


MAKCR. 


house of rose-vines woven wuth the interlaced boughs of 
crape-mjrtle trees. She sat down upon a rustic seat in- 
side its fragrant screen, with a feeling of relief that here 
she could give vent to her grief, undisturbed by that 
weird, semi-intelligent, but always watchful gleam in her 
father’s eyes. She hid her face in the cool vines and 
sobbed passionately. She did not hear Mr. Avery’s step 
or know of his presence until he called her name. She 
lifted her head and saw his tall figure standing before 
her in the dim light. 

“ Why do you weep so, Melicent \ ” he said, with 
mingled tenderness and bitterness in his tones. ‘‘Your 
lover lives ; he is fully recovered, and no doubt eager to 
see you. You can be free, if you choose, to marry him.” 

Melicent made no reply. He stood looking down 
into her pale face with its look of patient sadness. Pres- 
ently he said : 

“ It is late for you to be here. The night air is damp, 
and you have nothing around you.” 

He took up her shawl that had dropped from her 
shoulders and wrapped it around her. 

“ Come into the house,” he said. 

She went with him, still without speaking. When 
they reached the foot of the stairs, he said : 

“ Melicent, you are not happy here. In truth, it 
must be a wretched and lonely life for you. What can I 
do for you ? What do you wish ? ” 

“ I am going away,” she said quickly. “ Do you 
think I would stay here to be a burden and a shame to 
you ? I only consented to come for a purpose ; that has 
been accomplished, or at least is no longer to be consid- 
ered, I am going away the day after to-morrow,” 




229 


“ With that man % — with Archer ? ” 

“ !Never ! ” she cried, with indignant passion. “ Do 
not insult me, Mr. Avery. For the sake of the merciful 
Saviour have pity ! Do not mock my misery. There is 
no thought of Colonel Archer in my mind. Do you not 
see it? Are you so blinded by suspicion? No, I am 
going away — where, I do not know. I am going with 
my old father to find work and food and shelter — some- 
where — anywhere but here. 1 will take nothing from you ; 
do not ofier it. I have imposed upon you too long. It 
was kind ; it was generous ; it was a deed of charity, and 
I feel it as such.” 

‘‘It was nothing but what was due. You bear my 
name ; you are legally my wife.” 

“ Ah ! not even that,” she began. “ Stay ! do not 
speak — do not question me now ; I can not answer you 
coherently. There is something I must tell you — some- 
thing I ought to have told you long ago ; but my mind 
has been so confused, so torn by conflicting feelings. 
After to-morrow I will tell you all ; and then, Aleck, I 
will go away out of your sight for ever. I will bring re- 
proach to you no longer. I will take my shadow from 
your threshold, and leave you free and happy — yes, I 
pray God, Aleck, you may be happy.” 

She turned from him and went slowly up stairs, leav- 
ing him standing with his head bent and his forehead 
corrugated by painful and perplexing thought. 


230 


MAKCm 


CHAPTEK XYIII. 

At the first gray light of the morning Melicent opened 
her window, that the cool wind might revive her. She 
was oppressed, stifling with the burden of that long 
night’s sleepless wretchedness. She had lived through 
it, but she felt as might the victim borne from an hour’s 
racking upon the torture- wheel. 

She sat at the window looking out, while the sky 
changed and grew brighter and more glowing, until the 
sun burst forth through the gold and crimson glory. 

‘‘ The last sun he shall see,” thought Melicent, and 
she turned quickly away, as though the brightness jarred 
upon her, sick heart. As she did so, she saw that her fa- 
ther was lying awake upon his bed, and that his eyes were 
turned to her with a keen, anxious look, utterly unlike 
the dull, mechanical gaze with which he had been wont 
to regard her before, or at least until within the last few 
days. 

Wresting her thoughts from that maddening center 
round which they whirled, she forced herself to perform 
for her father the usual little services which he was accus- 
tomed to receive from her — bathing his face and hands, 
combing his hair that had so whitened within the last few 
weeks, and adjusting the pillows, that he might rest com- 
fortably until it was time for him to be dressed and seated 
in his chair. When she had finished these wonted atten- 
tions and was standing absently smoothing the hair from his 
forehead, while her thoughts were elsewhere, he suddenly 
drew her down to him, clasped her with his arm, and 
kissed her. The circumstance surprised her ; it was the 


MAJ^Cm 


231 


first time he had kissed her since the night he was at- 
tacked. She felt a tear drop upon her cheek — a single 
large, hot drop, unlike the tears he had often shed in his 
fits of childish weeping. It was as though this single 
tear had been wrung from his brain by the strong grasp 
of anguish. 

“ My father, are you feeling worse % ” Melicent asked, 
bending over him. 

He shook his head, but did not speak, nor lift his face, 
that was bent down upon his hand. Melicent stood by 
him until he raised his head and laid it back upon the 
pillow, closing his eyes as though to sleep. Had she 
noticed closely, she would have seen, by the quiver of 
the eyelids and the twitching of the muscles about his 
mouth, that the slumber was only apparent. But Meli- 
cent’s mind was too deeply preoccupied for any such ob- 
servation. 

The execution of Heil was to take place at nine o’clock. 
Manch had told Melicent that he would come to her this 
morning for a little while, to bring any word that Heil 
might wish to send, and then return, that he might go 
with his friend to the ^lace of execution and stand by him 
to the last moment. 

It was now eight o’clock. Melicent had sent away 
her untasted breakfast, and now, with clinched hands and 
pale drawn lips, she walked the fioor in the restlessness 
of grief. A low knock at the door made her start and 
stop in her aimless walk. Manch stole softly in and stood 
beside her. He was neatly dressed in a black suit that 
Melicent had had prepared for him. He silently put his 
hand in hers, and she pressed it convulsively, unable to 
speak, and looked down into his pale face in dumb in- 


232 


MAJ^CH. 


quiry. In answer to the look he said, speaking with the 
huskiness of restrained feeling : 

“ He’s wonderful calm this morning. He sent his 
love to you and told me to bring little Bunch to you for 
a keepsake. He knew you would take care of him.” 

He put his hand in the bosom of his shirt and took 
out the little squirrel, that nestled in his hand and peeped 
out shyly with blinking eyes, having been so long accus- 
tomed to the prison gloom. Manch held his head down 
and stroked the silky fur of the squirrel in a rapid, me- 
chanical way, as if to keep down the tide of feeling strug- 
gling in his breast. Melicent made him sit down ; then 
she took the little prison-pet gently in her hand. 

‘‘ Tell me,” she said, when she could trust herself to 
speak — “ tell me all he said, Manch. Did he express no 
wish ? ” 

“ He told me where he wanted to be buried. It is 
close by the river, not far from where granny lives, where 
a house was burned down a long time ago — by the Injuns, 
I reckon. There’s an old oak-tree there with half of it 
killed by the fire, and under it’s a grave that Ishmael used 
to go to of nights and pull away the weeds and grass from 
it, when he first came back. He wants to be laid along- 
side that grave. There’s where she’s buried, he says — 
she he calls Milly.” 

Melicent made no comment. She struggled hard for 
composure before she asked another question. 

“He is calm this morning, you say? Does he not 
seem to feel the horror of that dreadful death ? ” 

“ Hot now,” answered the boy. “ He told me he used 
to shiver and turn cold when he thought of dyin’ that 
shameful way, you know, and he would dream of all the 


MAMCK. 


233 


people with their faces turned, up, glarin’ and hissin’ at the 
murderer and wretch they would take him to be. But 
that’s all done with now ; his mind’s at peace. He prayed 
last night ; I never heard such a prayer. He thought I 
was asleep, but I hadn’t closed my eyes. He prayed 
‘ Christ, help me,’ over and over on his knees, upon the 
cold, damp floor, and at last he said twice, ‘ Thy will be 
done.’ Then he lay down and went to sleep. I listened 
to his breathin’, calm as a baby’s, and at last I fell asleep 
myself. When I waked up it was broad day, and Ishmael 
was sittin’ by, watchin’ me with such a sweet smile on 
Lis face — as sweet and peaceful-like as you’ve seen in the 
pictures of Jesus in the church. He kissed me and said : 
‘ I’ve had such a sweet dream, Manch. I thought I saw 
Milly, and she came to me dressed all in blue like the 
sky, with white lilies in her hair, and she held out a nose- 
gay of the most beautiful flowers. Just as I reached my 
hand for it I woke, but I feel her smile deep down in my 
heart. It warms all the chill there and takes away the 
pain of death, for I shall see her, Manch ; as sure as I am 
to die to-day. I’ll meet her in the only world that’s fit for 
such as her to live in.’ ” 

The child’s voice sank to a husky whisper. Melicent 
sobbed aloud. Heither of them noticed the old man sit- 
ting silent in his chair, until the sound of a deep groan 
made Melicent start and look up in alarm at her father. 
She ran to him quickly, but he gave no other sign of pain, 
and he motioned her aside, muttering that there was no- 
thing the matter. 

in a little while Manch went away, carrying the flow- 
ers to Ishmael, with Melicent’s kind love and her prayers 
for the peace and repose of his soul. 


m 


MAJfCH. 


It was a beautiful Indian-summer day. A light haze 
veiled the sky — a delicious softness pervaded the air. 

It’s a fine day for de hangin’,” said old Margaret, as 
she wheeled her master’s chair close to the open window, 
and dere’ll be a heap of folks dere to see it. Dey’ve 
been cornin’ in town ever since sun-up. I ain’t been to a 
bangin’ not in five year, and I’d like mighty well to see 
dis here one. Dey say he’s gwine to make a speech on 
de gallows, and make a clean bress of it den. He ain’t 
’fessed a word to de minister, and he so nigh to judgment, 
and lookin’, dey say, like death’s got a grip on him a’ready, 
and ’bout to cheat the gallows out of its jess due. Good 
Lor’ ! here’s a ox-wagon full of folks, wimmen and chillen, 
come in from de country, gone drivin’ right on to de jail. 
Dey goin’ to git out dere and walk along wid de perces- 
sion and de hangman’s cart. Wish ’twould come by here, 
but no such good luck. Everything has to go ’long by 
Trenton Street, whether it’s a circus-band or a funurl.” 

As old Margaret mumbled on with the familiar gar- 
rulity of an old and indulged servant, she arranged the 
footstool and the chair-cushions for her master, whom she 
had come to regard as a large-sized infant, to be careful- 
ly attended to as to comfort, but not otherwise regarded 
— supposing him incapable of taking intelligent notice of 
what was going on. If she had looked into his face while 
she talked, she would have changed her opinion. Its 
expression would have checked the words on her lips and 
made her withered hands tremble and drop in scared sur- 
prise. ' 

Unable to restrain her feelings, Melicent quitted the 
room, and, shutting herself in her closet, knelt upon the 
floor, with the crucifix pressed to her breast and dumb 


MAJ^CH. 


235 

prayers upon her lips. Here she meant to remain till the 
fatal hour had passed. 

Meantime old Margaret, while pretending to feed the 
squirrel in its cage, kept a close lookout from the window. 
The distant, confused sound of many voices, pierced with 
occasional shouts, which she had been hearing for some 
time, seemed to grow nearer — to mingle with the tramp 
of feet and the rumble of wheels. Suddenly the fore- 
most object of a miscellaneous procession turned the street 
corner upon which Mayor Avery’s house was situated. 
It was the hangman’s cart old Margaret had spoken of. 
It was driven by a huge black negro, in red flannel shirt- 
sleeves ; on either side of it was an armed man to guard 
the prisoner, who sat inside upon a rough, black coflin, 
his hands bound behind his back. The face of Heil Grif- 
fin, though pale and emaciated, had a tranquil, even sweet 
expression. His eyes had no longer that wild, haunted 
look, but were full of the sad calm of a spirit that had 
done fighting with Fate or flying from her pursuit. As 
he sat there, the target of so many curious eyes, there 
was no sign of agitation apparent beyond the occasional 
quiver of the lips and twitching of the eyelids. His eyes 
rested upon Manch, who sat at his feet on the floor of the 
cart, with his head bent down upon his tightly clinched 
hands. 

“Blessed God!” cried old Margaret, “if here ain’t 
de percession cornin’ right under our window I There he 
is — the black-hearted murderer, Heil Griffin — a-ridin’ on 
his own coffin 1 ” 

She thrust her head over the casement and looked 
down eagerly. She did not see what took place just be- 
hind her. She did not see the man that had been paralyzed 


^36 


MAXCH. 


rise to his feet as if suddenly drawn up by some resistless 
hand, and stand beside her, his face ghastly and his wide, 
dilated eyes staring out upon the street. She did not see 
him until he touched her shoulder as he leaned forward. 
Then she turned and saw erect him whom she had never 
expected to see stand again — saw his face, his eyes, and 
shrieked in terror. At the sound, the people passing be- 
low looked up. Many faces were upturned, but the man 
at the window saw only one — that pallid face — the big, 
hollow, mournful eyes of the man in the cart — the man 
who sat upon the coffin his body was to fill. As those 
eyes met his, the face of the old man became terribly 
convulsed. He beat the air with his arm ; he struggled 
to speak, and at last one word burst from his lips in a 
mighty volume of sound. 

Hold ! ” he shouted. 

Every figure in the procession stood still — every face 
was lifted to the window whence the command proceeded. 
One instant only ; the next, old Margaret had recovered 
from her fright, and, appearing at the window, called out 
shrilly : 

“Don’t mind him! He’s done been sick, and is 
crazy-like ! ” 

The old man did not gainsay her statement. After 
uttering that one word, he stood as if transformed to 
granite, staring blankly down at the prisoner in the cart, 
over whose own face there had passed an instantaneous 
and singular change — an expression of wild amazement, 
doubt, perplexity; then, in a twinkling, the shade of 
doubt grew fainter, and the prisoner slowly shook his 
head. Had he recognized the man overhead ? and was 
this a sign for him to keep silent ? 




237 


The crowd, that for an instant had been breathlessly 
impressed by the tragic look and voice of the man at the 
window, now moved on with jeers, hisses, and laughter. 
The black driver of the cart cracked his whip and showed 
his teeth with a good-humored oath, and the procession 
moved on, leaving the tall figure of the gray-haired man 
still standing at the window. But now his daughter had 
come to his side. Startled by that loud cry, Melicent had 
risen from her knees, and, hurrying into the room, had 
found her father standing erect and staring out into the 
street — at what spectacle she could guess too well. She 
was not so utterly amazed as the old servant had been, 
for she had noted for some days the change that was tak- 
ing place in her father’s condition. She laid her hand 
upon his arm and drew him gently from the window. 

“ Come away, dear father. It is time for you to lie 
down and rest.” 

He gazed at her as one just aroused from a dream. 

“ Ho,” he said, “ I am going. I must follow him. I 
must lose no time. Let me go.” 

Father, be quiet, I entreat you. You are too ill to 
go out. You are not able — ” 

He stepped forward into the middle of the room, and 
said with his old calm authority : 

“ Margaret, get my hat and my coat at once — my best 
black coat ! Melicent, I am going — do you understand ? ” 
Was it only his will that had been paralyzed, or had a 
sudden shock restored him, even as one had smitten him ? 
Or was this the unnatural strength and activity that some- 
times precede and betoken death — all life’s forces con- 
centrated in one last struggle with dissolution ? However 
it was, he stepped forward almost in his old stately way. 


238 


MAJVCH, 


and his voice had all its firm utterance and self-command. 
Melicent saw the stern, steady gleam in his eye, and she 
knew that he was resolved. Resistance to his will was 
useless. She fell at once under the infiuence of that mas- 
terful will, yielding passive^ acquiescence to his wishes, as 
she had been wont to do. 

“ Go, Margaret, immediately, and get a carriage — a 
cab — anything,” she said. 

“ Let it be brought at once,” ordered her master. 
“ It must be here in five minutes. And meantime, Meli- 
cent, bring me my clothes — my best suit. I would be 
dressed well on my first public appearance in your city.” 

He smiled — a ghastly gleam of merriment, that crossed 
his face like a lurid fiash of lightning, and left it darker 
than before. He spoke no more until he was dressed. 

“ Bring me the steel casket, Melicent — it is here.” 

“ It is, but it is locked and the key can not be 
found.” 

‘‘ Bring it ; I will find the key.” 

She opened an armoire in the room and took from it 
a steel box with handles. It was the only one of their 
possessions he had taken any note of when they were leav- 
ing his home. He had pointed to this, and intimated his 
wish that it should be brought. Ho key could be found 
to it, but Melicent supposed it to contain papers of im- 
portance. As she put it before him now, he took from 
his neck a small black cord, to which Melicent saw that a 
key was attached. He unlocked the box and took from 
it a small bundle rolled in a white handkerchief, not so 
securely but that, at the ends, could be seen the dim glit- 
ter of a serpent-skin and the rough handle of a knife. 
Melicent turned cold and faint when she saw him thrust 


MAJfCH. 


239 


this package into his bosom. At the same moment old 
Margaret entered the room. 

“ A carriage is here,” she said. 

He turned to Melicent. A tumult of feeling con- 
vulsed his brow, but he controlled himself. 

“My daughter,” he said, “you will go with me?” 
Then he looked at her and added hastily : “No, no — ^you 
could not bear it. Remain here, Melicent. Kiss me, 
love, and stay until — ” 

His voice faltered; he held out his arms in silence. 
She realized then what he was about to do. She sprang 
into his arms and clung to him with passionate tenderness. 

“ Father, I will go with you anywhere. I will never 
forsake you.” 

The spirit of woman’s devotion was upon her. 

“ I have stood by thee in thine hour 
Of glory and of bliss ; 

Doubt not its memory’s living power 
To strengthen me through this.” 

He clasped her tenderly, and a tear gathered in his 
eye. Hastily he dashed it off. 

“ Let us go at once ! ” he exclaimed. “ God grant I 
may not be too late ! ” 

She assisted him down the steps. In the hall he seized 
a stick that hung against the wall, and with this he suc- 
ceeded in reaching the carriage. 

“ Drive on,” he said, as he entered it ; “ drive as fast 
as your team can go.” 

“ Where?” inquired the man. 

“To the gallows!” he answered; and again that 
gleam of grim mirth swept across his lips. 


240 




Melicent,” he said, “ I have told you my ambitious 
plans ; I talked to you of my anticipated rise in life. 
Behold ! here is the rise — the scaffold of a gallows ! ” 

Melicent could not reply, and he spoke no more dur- 
ing the ride, except to urge the man to “drive fast- 
er,” as he leaned forward and looked anxiously before 
him. 

The place of execution was upon a hill a short distance 
out of town. They came in sight of it at last ; they saw 
the gallows on the brow of the hill, clearly defined against 
the sky. Three figures stood upon it — the sheriff, who 
was also the hangman, the prisoner, and the faithful child. 
The dense crowd that surrounded it was still rs if hushed 
into awful expectancy. 

“Faster!” cried Judge Weir hoarsely, seizing the 
whip and lashing the horses with his own hand. Snort- 
ing in terror and straining every muscle, they sprang up 
the long hill wdth furious bounds. 

Melicent saw the hangman approach and lay his 
hands upon the prisoner. Instinctively she uttered a low 
scream. 

“ jN^o use to go any farther,” said the driver. “ It’ll 
all be over in another minute, and we can see it here as 
well as nearer. Couldn’t get through that crowd no- 
where.” 

“Drive on!” thundered the old man at his side; 
then suddenly he waved aloft a white handkerchief he 
had hastily attached to the stick. 

“ A reprieve ! a reprieve ! ” he shouted in that tre- 
mendous voice that seemed made to shake the nerves and 
trample upon the wills of ordinary mortals. 

The crowd heard. They turned as with one impulse 


MAJ^CH. 


Ml 

and beheld the carriage driven toward them with such 
furious speed, and the imposing figure in front holding 
aloft the fluttering white signal. 

“ A reprieve ! a reprieve ! ” they echoed, and parted 
right and left, leaving a space, through which the carriage 
was driven to the scaffold’s foot. Then its occupants de- 
scended from it — the old man calm and determined, lean- 
ing upon the daughter, who kept her consciousness in 
that dreadful moment only by the strength his magnetic 
power imparted. As the wind blew back the hood of the 
silk mantle which old Margaret had thrown around Meli- 
cent, and disclosed her features to Mr. Avery, he uttered an 
involuntary exCilamation and started forward from his po- 
sition among the crowd nearest the scaffold. But some- 
thing in her eye warned him not to approach her. He 
had no part in this drama ; she would not involve him in 
its shame and grief. 

At the foot of the scaffold her father took his hand 
from her arm. 

“ Remain here, my daughter,” he said, pressing her 
fingers in a strong, convulsive grasp. He signed to the 
sheriff, who came down from the platform and paused 
expectantly at his side. 

“ Support me up to the scaffold.” 

Bowing respectfully to the request of the distinguished- 
looking man, the officer gave him the aid of his arm to 
assist him up the steps of the platform. As Melicent 
saw him ascend that instrument of ignominy and death, 
her courage gave way. The murmur of the crowd sound- 
ed in her ears like the rush of many waters ; a mist came 
before her ; she felt herself tottering, and instinctively 
stretched out her hand to find support. It was seized by 
11 


242 




hard, bony fingers, and an arm grasped her waist and up- 
held her with fierce strength. 

“ Don’t faint,” said a voice in her ear, which she knew 
to be Hagar’s. Don’t give ’em a chance to gloat over 
you, Milly. I knew him just now, the minute I saw his 
eye, and now I comprehend all that’s happened. You’ve 
tried to save the poor boy, my gal. You’ve done him 
all the good you could, but the hounds wanted blood. 
They’ve been barkin’ at you too ; I’ve heard of it. Hold 
up your head and show ’em if they do silence you they 
can’t crush you. Bum ’em with your eyes and curse ’em 
in your heart as I do ! ” 

Her eyes glared around with fierce defiance, for there 
had been an attempt, on the plea of her violence, to keep 
her away from the execution and the last sight of the son 
she had not been permitted to see while he lay in prison. 
Her voice rose as she spoke, and she shook her clinched 
hand at the spot where the mayor and aldermen stood. 
But no notice was taken of her now. All eyes were 
fixed upon the scatfold, all ears were strained to hear the 
message of reprieval brought by that stately old man 
with the long, gray hair. He had declined further sup- 
port from the sheriff, and, stepping a pace in front of him 
and of the prisoner, he stood with his tall foim erect, his 
gray head bare to the sky, in sight of the silent and wait- 
ing multitude. 

‘‘ People of Alluvia ! ” he cried, in that rich, powerful 
voice that rang to the uttermost limits of the crowd, “ I 
am here to free your prisoner — to proclaim his innocence 
and send him down from the scaffold, not only free from 
the taint of blood-guiltiness, but crowned with the honors 
that belong to the martyr. He is innocent of the crime 


MAJfCH. 


243 


;1 

i) 

illbr whicli lie lias been condemned. The one who did 
Ik&t deed stands before you now. I alone am the mur- 
derer of Marmaduke Archer ! ” 

For an instant there fell upon the assembly the silence 
<|f the grave. Then a faint murmur arose that rapidly 
increased to a tumult of sound. In the midst of it Mr. 
Avery sprang upon the scaffold-steps and waved his 
liand excitedly. 

“ Fellow citizens ! ” he cried, “ I beg you will give no 
ieed to the declaration you have just heard. It is the 
' Utterance of a deranged mind. This gentleman knows 
Uo more about the murder than you or I. He is a stran- 
ger in this place. He was only brought here an invalid a 
few weeks ago. He is my wife’s father — Judge Weir — 

! s highly respected citizen of St. Louis, and a most able 
I twyer until his mind was injured by a recent stroke of 
^ppoplexy. I call upon his physician. Dr. Wilson, who is 
I present, to certify if this is not true.” 

j' Dr. Wilson arose, and in a few words corroborated 
( the statement of Mr. Avery that Judge Weir had been 
lately brought to Alluvia an invalid, with his mind great- 
ly impaired by a paralytic attack. 

; ^ Turning then to Judge Weir and preparing to ap- 
i proach him, Mr. Avery said gently : 
j I ‘‘ This excitement is too much for you, sir. You are 
:too ill to be out. Come down with me, I entreat you, 

|i 'and return home for your daughter’s sake.” 

1* It was noticed by the spectators that at this instant 
; the prisoner, who had before seemed bewildered with as- 
.ytonishment, now stepped to the side of Judare Weir and 
said a few words in a low tone that seemed to be of en- 
treaty. They were answered by a swift gesture of dis- 


MAJ^CE. 


^44 

sent. Then, checking the approach of Mr. Avery and the 
physician with a glance and a wave of his hand, he said 
decisively : 

‘‘ ISTo, I will not come down from this scaffold until 
my will is accomplished. I came here to save the life of 
this man, who would have sacrificed himself through de- 
votion to — another.” 

Then, lifting his brow and raising his voice to the 
thrilling pitch that hushed every whisper, he continued : 

“ People of Alluvia, your mayor is wrong. It is true 
I have been ill, and bodily disease may have clouded my 
intellect ; but Fate has to-day swept the mists away with 
one mighty stroke, and as I stand here this moment, my 
brain is as clear as the sanest among you. Deliberately 
and in my right mind, I declare to you that I committed 
this deed for which Neil Griffin has been condemned to 
die. 

“ Mr. Avery is wrong upon another point. He says I 
am a stranger in this place. Why, every foot of its ground 
is familiar to me. On that hill yonder I headed the handful 
of settlers that routed the thieving red-skins, rescued two 
women and a girl, took back the horses that had been 
stolen from us, and captured their great chief, Wingino, 
after his tomahawk had descended here upon my forehead. 
Don’t you remember that day, boys % Tom Peed, Dick 
Allan, and you. Fighting Bob — don’t you remember — 
Captain Brown % ” 

“Ay! ay ! ay ! ” shouted the men addressed, and a 
dozen others who recognized the speaker, and rose to 
their feet waving their hats and gesticulating wildly. 

“ Great thunderation ! ” “ Is it you, Cap’n, and no 

mistake % ” “ That’s him ! I’d know his voice if I was 


MAmH. 


245 


a’ ! ” “ Hurrah for the Fightin’ Bear of Bear’s 

ad ! ” “ Hurrah for Cap’n Brown ! He ain’t dead, 

all!” 

These and other enthusiastic exclamations broke from 
excited settlers, who recognized their old leader in 
battle and the chase. 

For an instant a flash of the old fire gleamed in the 
[ieftain’s eye, then as suddenly died out. He staggered 
step and pressed his hand to his brow. His ashen 
leek and writhing lip told of a fearful struggle going on 
[ His breast. It was the death-throes of the instinct that 
mighty as life within him — the instinct of leadership 
-tihe wdld, bold spirit of the born chieftain. 

I Once more he advanced to the front of the platform. 

I “ Silence 1 ” he cried with fierce energy and a ges- 
jlme of imperial command. “ I am here, not for an ova- 
bn, but for a confession ; not to receive friendly recog- 
mon, but to accept doom. It is true, I w^as known 
Mong you as Captain Brown, but my true name is Weir. 
I (was the name I bore when I fled from my own State 

E ! Alabama, with the stain of blood on my hands, and 
•ohed your settlement at twilight of that autumn day 
kith my brave horse staggering under me and a little 
jtfld in my arms. That child sits there,” he said, point- 
to Melicent, who sat at the scaffold’s foot, unable 
SgSt to stand, even with the assistance of old Hagar. 

' “ For her sake, as well as of Neil Griffin’s, I will tell 
story. She has suffered because of my acts. She 
been the victim of unjust calumny. To clear her 
wrong, to save him from the scaffold, I stand here 
id confess what else would have gone with me to the 


246 


MAJ^CH. 


“ I was born in Alabama. At fourteen I still had i 
father, a mother, and a home; at fifteen I was orphane«1 
and beggared. One man did it — ^Marmaduke Archer^ 
He swindled mj father out of his property and turne( 
him from his home in the dead of winter. TJnaccustome( 
work and exposure brought on rheumatic fever, of whicf ^ 
he died. My mother survived him but a few weeks, 
was thrown upon the world at the bottom of Fortune’i 
ladder, but I was bold and resolute. I determined ^ 
mount it. I studied day and night. I worked ever} ^ 
scheme to become popular — to learn every hidden spring ; 
by which men are moved. Finally, I became a candidat^ ’ 
for office. I had every prospect of success. I had jus 
spoken to a large assembly — an off-hand speech that hac 
stirred enthusiasm and created applause. Marmadukt' 
Archer came forward. Snake-like, he had struck at me 
many times in secret ; now, backed by his party, he made' 
bold to strike openly. His speech was the bitterest per 
sonality. He professed to dig up old family secrets: 
he fiung odium on my father’s name, on my mother’^^ 
honor. I listened till my blood was fire. I sprang upor 
the platform, caught him by the throat and hurled him^ 
to the ground. His head struck a stone ; he lay motion- 
less, and they thought him dead. 

“ I was arrested, confined for days, and released whei 
it was found that Archer did not die. The day afterwaii 
I left the place that had become hateful to me. Before 
I went, I had an interview with the woman who had 
promised to be my wife — a stolen interview, for she wa( 
the ward of Marmaduke Archer. She was the one being 
I cared for on earth. I loved her with all the strength 
of my soul. 1 had loved her since she was a child. I 


i! MAKCH. m 

Relieved her when she promised to be true to me until 
better fortune allowed me to return and claim her. 

M “I went to Cuba and joined Lopez. I threw myself 
hto the whirlpool of that reckless revolution, and was 
rjpeedily stranded on the rock of captivity. I spent three 
1 ears in a Spanish prison, two years more in earning 
,|noney to return other than as a beggar. I went straight 
';o my native town. As I rode into it at sunset, I met a 
firl coming from the village — her fair head bare, a hat 
ipon one arm, a little basket of oranges on the other. 
iShe did not recognize me, but I should have known my 
Madeleine among a thousand. I turned my horse’s head 
ind followed her. She entered a little cottage by the 
road. I stood at the window and watched her unseen. 
W man sat in the room with a little girl asleep on his 
knee. He rose, laid the child in its crib, kissed my be- 
trothed, and called her ‘ wife.’ 

“ My Madeleine caressed and called ‘ wife ’ by another 
man ! My Madeleine, whose memory had kept me alive 
all those dreary years ! — who had sworn to be faithful to 
me — whose name had nerved me in battle, had been 
vvhispered in my prayers, and called upon deliriously in 
prison ! I could not bear it ; the blood rushed to my 
brain ; I leaped in at the window and stood before her. 
i upbraided her with falsehood, and she wept and trem- 
bled. Her husband interposed ; I cursed him, and he 
struck me. I sprang upon him, and we fought like two 
savage beasts, while she stood by, shrieking and praying. 

last he got his knife in his hand, and made a lunge at 
my throat. I wrested the blade from him and drove it 
to the hilt in his own breast. He fell back, gasped, and 
all was over. I looked down at an innocent man dead 


MAXCS. 


m 

bj inj hand. At a little distance lay his wife in a heav^ 
swoon. As I raised her, I saw a vial half filled witl i 
dark fluid grasped in her rigid hand ; drops of the browr I 
liquid were on her lips. It was laudanum. Crazed witl * 
fright and horror, she had swallowed the poison. I war 
a double murderer. 

“ She did not die until far in the night. She revived 
She forgave me and told me all. She had never been false, 
to me in heart. She had received no word from me sinc( 

I left. Her guardian, Marmaduke Archer, had showr 
her a letter announcing that I was dead ; that I had beer j 
killed in fight. After that she had lost heart, and allowed 
him to persecute her into a marriage with a man whe 
suited him, because he was not likely to make difiiculties 
about her fortune, which he (Archer) had spent. So, all 
this was the work of my arch-enemy. > 

“ Here was another heavy account to be scored against 
the villain who had ruined my life. Over the dead man 
I had killed and the dying woman I loved, I swore a des-' 
perate oath to be revenged on Marmaduke Archer. But 
my vengeance must be delayed ; he had gone to Cali- 
fornia, to be absent for years. Madeleine told me this. 
Then she besought me to go — to save myself by flight,' 
before this night’s work was discovered. She told me 
she had never ceased to love me, and with her dying 
breath left her child to my care — the child that I had made^ 
an orphan. O God ! the horror and remorse of that night ! ; 
I held my poor Madeleine in my arms till she expired ;; 
then I sat down beside her stupefied with despair. The) 
touch of a little hand aroused me — the sound of a little' 
voice calling to ‘ mamma ’ to ‘ wake up,’ made me start to 
my feet. It was the little child, who had slept through 




249 


this horror, and who was now trying to wake her dead 
|mother with kisses. She looked at me with scared, be- 
liBeeching eyes. That look brought a swift revulsion of 
alieeling. The poor mother had begged me to care for her 
: child. I had meant to end my own wretched existence ; 
now I threw down the bottle of laudanum and took the 
child in my arms. Then I first became aware that the 
i room was on fire. Some burning brands upon the hearth 
, had become scattered in the scuffle, had ignited the cloth- 
ing on the walls, then the dry pine planks, until now the 
1 wall was ablaze. The thought rushed upon me that the 
• fiames would conceal the evidence of my deed. I caught 
up the child, ran from the house, leaped upon my horse, 
and rode rapidly away from the scene, with the child on 
the saddle before me. 

, ‘‘ Days afterward I reached this place — then a border 

settlement, called Bear’s Bend. In the wild life that fol- 
lowed, I knew but one controlling feeling — love for the 
(^hild that had been thrown upon my care — the child I 
bad deprived of its natural guardians. No father’s love 
ever equaled in depth the remorseful tenderness I felt 
for this child of my murdered Madeleine. My ambition 
centered in her. I determined to take her back to the 
civilized States — to educate and accomplish her — to make 
amends for the wrong I had done her. But, to do this, 
[ must have money ; and while I schemed to make it, and 
thought her a mere child, she married — married into a 
family that was not only obscure but despised. Bitter 
disappointment was mine. Then, after a time, I began 
to plan how to take her away from the man she had mar- 
ried — to carry her ofi with me somewhere, for the spirit 
of restlessness possessed me. I had not forgotten my 


250 


MAJ^CH. 


revenge — it smoldered in my breast; suddenly it was 
fanned into a flame. 

“ One night, as I approached the cabin of ITeil Griffin, 
I heard a voice inside — a voice I remembered too well. I 
stopped without, at the window, and my heart ceased 
beating when I saw him sitting within — my arch-enemy, 
the destroyer of my parents, the wrecker of my peace, the 
villain who had made me a murderer and an outcast — 
Marmaduke Archer ! He was seated by the fire, excited 
by liquor, and ostentatiously displaying the treasure of 
gold, diamonds, and bank-notes which he carried con- 
cealed about his person. As I watched him, the blood 
burned in my brain. I clutched the knife at my belt. 
But I could not kill him there, under Milly’s roof. I 
postponed my vengeance until morning. Then I waylaid 
his path; I confronted him suddenlyand bade him de- 
fend himself. He did so. He was no coward, and he 
was a man of powerful frame ; but guilt unnerved him, 
and revenge gave me a tiger’s strength. At one time 
he had the advantage : he struck the knife from my hand 
after I had stabbed him once. He was about to plunge 
his own dirk into my heart, when I wrested it from him 
and dealt him his death-blow. That knife was the one 
produced in court as evidence against Heil Griffin. It 
was a silver-mounted, Spanish blade, which Neil had just 
given Archer in exchange for a ring. Here is the knife 
that struck the first blow — my own old bowie-knife, com- 
rades, with my name cut in the handle and the blood of 
that villain rusted upon the blade. It was found in the 
hollow of ‘ Gallows Oak,’ where I thrust it, with the 
bloody fragments of the vest I had ripped up to get at 
the bank-notes and diamonds. I had a right to them. 


MAJ^CH. 


251 


Did he not cheat my father of his fortune, and Madeleine 
of hers ? As I turned around from hurriedly hiding the 
knife and vest, Neil Griffin came upon me. While he 
stood speechless with horror, 1 ran by him, crying, ‘ Keep 
silent, for Milly’s sake ! ’ Poor wretch ! He did keep 
silent, even unto death. He would not betray me, even 
when he saw them bent upon hanging him for the mur- 
der. 

“ ^ Better me than you, Cap’n,’ he whispered to me. 
‘You can do ahetter part by her than I can, and she’d 
feel w^orse to have you swing than to have me. Maybe 
it ’ud be a piece of good fortune for her if I was put out 
of the way.’ 

“ I thought so too, perhaps ; but God is my witness 
that I never meant he should die for me. I thought I 
could help him to escape that night. I meant to give 
him my good horse and a part of the gold, and have him 
fly to Mexico and leave Milly free. That was what I 
planned to do, but Fate ruled otherwise. The mob stole 
a march upon me. I risked rousing their suspicions by 
my efibrt to save him. I cried out that he was innocent. 
I cut him down before them — too late, as I had thought. 
That night my poor Milly’s baby w^as born, while she lay 
convulsed and unconscious. The next night I resolved to 
steal away and destroy all trace of my flight. I set fire 
to the house and slipped away in a skifl at dead of night. 
If any flesh was found in the ashes of the burned building, 
it was that of a dog that was fastened up in the house ; 
if any human bones were there, they were those of the 
Chief Wingino, whose skeleton I possessed. Milly knew 
noth mg of our flight, nor of the journey that followed. 
Puerperal mania set in, and for months she had no intel- 


252 


MAKCH. 


ligent consciousness. When she recovered, I found that 
recollections of past events had faded from her mind, 
or were mixed up confusedly with her delirious visions. 
It was easy to make her believe that all was delirium — 
that she had never known other scenes than those now 
around her. After four years of schoolgirl life, she en- 
tered society. When she married Mr. Avery, she re- 
tained no recollection of her Western life, unless it was 
some fragmentary, dream-like glimpses; but she came 
here, and the sight of familiar scenes and of one well- 
known face started old recollections out upon the scroll 
of her mind as heat brings out invisible writing. She 
thought it was insanity. She wrote to me in agonized 
suspense, imploring me to tell her if she was mad, or if 
these memories were true. I told her not all, but all I 
dared to tell, and exacted from her a solemn promise that 
she would reveal it to no one — especially that she should 
not betray me and herself to Mr. Avery. She has kept 
that promise, though it has cost her dearly. 

“ She discovered after a time that Neil Griffin yet 
lived — that he was hunted down by Archer’s son, who 
sought revenge for his father’s murder. Believing him 
innocent, she did all she could to protect him from dis- 
covery. She encouraged Archer to confide to her his 
plans of detection, and she used her woman’s wit to thwart 
them. When all was in vain, shemaade one last attempt 
to save Neil, and rode at midnight to his cabin to carry 
him a horse on which to escape. For this brave deed she 
brought foul scandal on her head. She is wholly inno- 
cent. She never even discovered herself to Neil Griffin. 
He knows who she is now for the first time, as he stands 
hero and listens to me. She is th^ wife he mourned as 




253 

dead. I tried to take her from him, but Fate is stronger 
than man. Fate has brought it all round its own way. 
It was the sudden sight of that blood-rusted old knife and 
those bloody fragments of the snake-skin vest that did for 
me. A sudden recollection of the old man’s dying look 
smote me like a blow on the brain ; and the sight of FTeil 
Griffin’s eyes to-day, as he sat on his coffin on his way to 
suffer death for my deed, was too much for me. It shocked 
me back to sense and feeling, and brought me here to 
confess that the crime was mine. ITo, I will not call it 
crime. It was no criminal deed to take the life of that 
villain.” 

“And you done it in fair fight, Cap’n — ^blow for 
blow,” sang out the stentorian voice of Tom Reed. 
“ Why didn’t you say so then, like a man, an’ all would 
’a’ been square ? ” 

“ All’s square as it is, to my mind,” shouted another 
voice. “ I’ll be blowed if as good a soljer as the Cap’n’s 
got any business bangin’ from a rope while there’s fightin’ 
to be did ! FTo, sir ; not while the red devils are a-thiev- 
in’ and burnin’ and scalpin’, not far off, in the teeth of the 
President and the blue - coats. Come down from thar, 
Cap’n ! Git your old rifle and let’s be off where game’s 
better, and there’s more elbow-room.” 

Other voices took up the cry, and shouted : 

“Yes, come down, Cap’n; we’ll stand by you.” 
“ Long live Cap’n Brown ! ” “ Let bygones be bygones.” 
“’Twarn’t no murder, anyway.” 

But when the Captain’s story was done, his strength 
had seemed suddenly to forsake him. His head had 
dropped upon his breast ; his tall form, that had stood 
erect while he spoke, drooped over the staff* he held. 


254 




“ 1^0 murder ! ” he murmured. I tell you there's 
ghosts started up this day that will never be laid any 
more. I can see his dying look — I can hear his last 
groan! And that other — poor little Milly’s father! — 
and my Madeleine, my murdered Madeleine ! — both dead 
by my hand ! Oh, God ! she will hate me, now that she 
knows me to be the murderer of her father — the de- 
stroyer of her mother. She will never forgive me! 
She will hate my memory ! Murder ! yes, it was mur — ” 

His voice failed, he tottered and fell back into the 
arms of the sheriff. It was only a momentary uncon- 
sciousness ; he opened his eyes and called faintly : 

“Milly!’’ 

She was kneeling by him, chafing one of his hands. 
He looked at her with unutterable anguish in his eyes. 

“Your hate is bitterer than all to bear, Milly — bit- 
terer than death — even death on the gallows.’’ 

She answered by leaning over and kissing him. 

“ You do not shrink from me,” he murmured. “ You 
can forgive the wrong I have done you ? ” 

“Do not talk of forgiveness, my father. Let God 
forgive. T can only love you because you have loved 
me. The wrong you speak of is a shadow to me ; 
your love is a reality. You have loved me — ^you have 
been kind to me always.” 

She pressed his hand to her cheek and to her lips. 

“ Oh, Heaven ! ” she cried, “ how cold he is, and how 
feeble ! He must be taken away from this place. It is 
fearful ! Hear the noise of the crowd ! See how they 
are pressing around the scaffold, their eyes fixed upon it 
— ^fixed upon him ! Oh ! pray let him be taken down 
and put into the carriage.” 




255 


A j, that he shall he this minute ! ” cried Dick Al- 
lan, who had mounted to the top of the scatfold with 
great hounds that made it quiver. “ He’s no business up 
here. Feelin’s will drive the best of men into scrapes 
sometimes. Cap’n Brown’s a man^ and he’s no business 
swinging from a rope like a cat that’s been caught in a 
cupboard. Ho, not while the world’s as wide as it is, 
and there’s miles of blue prairie and green woods over 
yonder a leetle nearer to the settin’ sun. Here, bear a 
hand, friend, and we’ll have him down from this and 
into his carriage. But first let me cut him loose,” he 
continued, as his eye fell upon Heil GriflSn. — “ Manch, 
my boy, you’ll never untie them cords with your eyes 
full o’ salt water. Let me give ’em a slash with my 
old dirk. There ! — Here, shake hands with me, man ! 
I’m proud to see you free. You’ve showed a stout heart, 
Neil Griffin — a stout heart and a brave one, by gum! 
I’ll say that for you, if they do say your father was a 
renegade, and your mother a witch. I don’t know where 
you got it from, but you’re a hero. Show me another 
man that would ’a’ faced the gallows twice afore he’d be- 
tray his friend 1 But there was love and a woman at the 
bottom of it. Well, you’ve eamt her, boy, and no mis- 
take ; yes, you’ve earnt her, and you shall have her, if 
she’s willin’ to gOj if the President hisself laid claim to 
her for a wife. You stand there a free man now — a free 
man and a happy one ! ” 

“ Free and happy ! ” Did not the words seem irony 
to the man who stood there pale and stunned, with a 
look of bewilderment on his face ? He clung to Manch’s 
hand and looked down drearily. 

He felt a light touch upon his arm. 


256 




‘‘Look, Iskmael !— it’s said Manch. “ Slie^s 

holding out her hand to you.” 

It was Melicent who had touched him. Still kneeling 
by the prostrate form of the man she had known as her 
father, she held out her hand to the husband of her youth, 
with no word upon her tremulous lips, but with a look 
full of deepest gratitude, sympathy, and kindness. His 
heart beat tumultuously as he held the slender hand an 
instant in his trembling clasp. Old memories crowded 
upon him — ^long-silent accents thrilled upon his ear. Her 
voice recalled his wandering senses. 

“Help me persuade him to leave this place,” she 
said. 

For Captain Brown — or Judge Weir, as we may call 
him — ^refused to be taken down from the scaffold. He 
lay upon the floor, supported now by the stalwart arms 
of Dick Allan. The sheriff had gone below, and his 
place upon the platform was fllled by old Hagar Grriflin. 
She stood over the fallen man like an eagle over its prey, 
but her fierce eye softened as she saw his condition. She 
had been his bitter foe in days gone by, but she had 
always admired his prowess and daring. His last act of 
saving ^leil by his voluntary confession wiped out for her 
many of the old scores against him, and to her half-savage 
judgment there was nothing so dark in the passion-stained 
record he had given of his life. Revenge was a portion 
of her creed, and she was ready to shake hands with the 
fallen chief in his hate for Marmaduke Archer. 

“I’ll bear a hand, Dick, and we’ll help him to get 
down from this before they have a noose around his neck 
— they’re so fond of tying the hemp cravat. God grant 
I may see it twisted around some of their own throats yet 


MdJfCH. 257 

before I die — tbe sneaking foxes ! Come, Captain — can 
yon help yourself a bit ? ” 

But the “ Captain” motioned them aside. 

“ i7o,” he said feebly ; I am a dying man, and here 
is the right place for me to die. Here is where I ought 
to have stood eight years ago, but I had not the courage 
to face the shame of such a death, and I could not bear 
to leave Milly. — Come close to me, my darling. IVe 
wronged you, but I loved you for all that ; and I’m dy- 
ing, Milly.” 

Hot dying, my father ! You were so much better 
just now.” 

“ It was dying strength ; it was the flash before the 
fire went out. It was given me to make some amends — 
at this late day — for the wrongs done to him and you. 
Poor girl ! I have wronged you out of father and 
mother — out of husband and child.” 

“ Child, father ! What can you mean ? ” 

“Your little babe, Melicent. That night — the night 
I burned the house — I left it. It’s little pitiful face has 
haunted me so ! The thought troubles me now.” 

“ My poor little babe was dead, father. It had never 
drawn breath. If it was burned up in the house, it 
could not feel the flames. Don’t let that trouble you 
now.” 

“ It was not dead — it was not burned.” 
i “Hot dead? Merciful God! where is it? Oh, father, 
fell me ! Speak to me 1 ” 

I He looked at her without seeming to comprehend. 
JQs eyes took on the dull, vacant look they had worn be- 
fore ; his lips moved in vague muttering. Melicent bent 
l^ver him until her breath mixed with his. 


258 


MAmH. 


“ Will you not tell me what you did with my child, 
father ? ” she whispered imploringly. “ You said you 
left it that night we went from the burning house? 
Where did you leave it, father ? ” 

“ It was — yes, I left him at her door.” 

“ Whose door, father ? ” 

“ Hagar Griffin’s — his grandmother’s.” 

Melicent’s swift glance went over first to the amazed 
face of old Hagar, who leaned opposite, and then to that 
of Manch. The old dame nodded eagerly. 

‘‘ That’s him ! ” she cried, pointing to Manch. “ Har- 
riet found him at our door that night, wrapped in a 
blanket. I never once mistrusted whose child it was ; 
hut he had the Griffin eye, and folks swore he was Har- 
riet’s child — the slandering devils ! ” 

The dying man roused from his fitful stupor, groaned, 
and looked around for Melicent. 

“ If I could know the child lived,” he murmured, the 
gleam of intelligence momentarily lighting his eye. 

“ Father, he lives ! ” cried Melicent, her voice trem- 
bling with unutterable feeling. “It is Manch — ^little 
Manch you liked so much. He lives — ^he is here ! ” 

She turned her eyes, shining through tears, upon the 
boy. 

“ My child ! ” she cried, and caught him to her bosom, 
clasping him in a passionate embrace and sobbing over 
him in wordless emotion. 

Suddenly, she felt his arms relax and drop from her 
neck. She gazed with dismay at his wan face and pale, 
parted lips. 

“ My God ! ” she exclaimed. “ Have I found him 
only to lose him ? ” 


MAJ^CR, 


259 


Give him to me,” said a gentle voice at her side. 

He has only fainted.” 

Heil took his hoy in his arms, chafed his hands and 
forehead a moment, and then the child drew a sobbing 
breath and opened his eyes — opened them to meet the 
tender, loving ones of the friend to whom he had been so 
faithful. 

‘‘My father!” he uttered; and clasping his arms 
around Neil’s neck, he buried his face in his bosom. 

The sore-tried and long-suffering man felt at that 
moment a thrill of unalloyed joy. 

As the eyes of the man who had injured him so deeply 
fell upon this moving picture, a shadow of agony passed 
over his face. 

“ It is I who have so long deprived him of a father’s 
happiness,” was perhaps the old man’s remorseful thought 
at that moment. Or it might have been bodily pain that 
convulsed his features, for his eyes had grown vacant and 
glazed again. They moved round once, twice, as if in 
vague search for something they, knew not what. Then 
they fell upon the face of Dick Allan, bent over his old 
comrade, and full of rugged sympathy. A sudden blaze 
leaped up in the dying eyes ; he threw up his hand, as 
though it held a battle-blade, and cried in his old, thrill- 
ing tones : 

Come, hoys — follow me ! ” 

The niling instinct was strong in death. The raised 
arm dropped heavily, the fire died out in the glazing 
eyes, the firm mouth quivered, a fearful tumult convulsed 
the majestic brow one moment — and then passed ; and he 
lay in death, calm and grand as the sculptured form of 
the Roman Caesar. 


260 


MAjYCH. 


The authority of the mayor and his corps had been 
needed to restrain the crowd while this strange scene 
was passing upon the platform of the gallows. IS^ow 
their pent-up excitement broke bounds, and they pressed 
around the scaffold and gave vent to shouts and curses, 
and seemed ready to shake the platform from its founda- 
tion in their eagerness to obtain a sight of the actors in 
the wild drama w^hose last scene had just closed on the 
floor of a gallows. Disappointed in the promised enter- 
tainment of a hanging, they were determined not to be 
deprived of the tragic spectacle which they were com- 
pelled to accept as its substitute ; and while Melicent 
sobbed over the lifeless form of her foster-father, and Dr. 
Wilson, after a brief examination of the body, went down 
to testify to the old man’s decease, the crowd surged 
against the platform and inveighed against the authorities 
who requested them to keep back. 

Mr. Avery had not lived so long among these wild 
Western men without knowing the one way there was to 
deal with them. Springing upon the steps of the scaf- 
fold, he drew a revolver from his belt and coolly declared 
himself ready to fire upon the first one who should ap- 
proach within a yard of the scaffold unless summoned to 
render assistance. Then he called upon the sheriff and 
two others to bring down the body of Judge Weir. 

“ Hold, one moment,” he said, as they were about to 
ascend the platform. He replaced the revolver in his 
belt, and his face underwent a change as he turned and 
approached where Melicent knelt. As he had stood be- 
low and listened to the wild story of confession and ex- 
planation which freed Melicent from blame and revealed 
the sad trials she had passed through, his soul had been 




261 


stirred by the succession of stormy feelings that had swept 
across it — astonishment, remorse, pity, love, anguish. 
Now, as he leaned over Melicent, his cheek was pale and 
his eye full of tenderness and compassion. 

“ Come with me, Melicent,” he said gently; “you are 
not needed here any longer ; you can do him no more 
good, and I will see to the removal of the body. Come, 
let me put you in the carriage and have you driven home.” 

The hand he laid upon Melicent’s arm was struck off 
suddenly, and the bony fingers of old Hagar Griffin 
grasped his shoulder and thrust him aside. 

“She’ll never go to a home of yours!” she cried. 
“ My son’s wife goes to his own home. Yonder is the 
death-cart that brought him here to the gallows, and that 
was meant to carry back his murdered remains. But 
God has shown himself above the devil to-day, and that 
same cart shall take back my living son and his wife ; 
and the coffin that was meant for him shall hold the body 
of the man who wronged them both and repented of it. 
You have nothing more to do with us. We will bury 
our dead, and shed our tears, and rejoice over our found 
without your interference. Go and find a bride some- 
where else, Alexander Avery; you have no claim upon 
Neil Griffin’s lawful wife.” 

She waved him down jvith a stern, imperative gesture, 
and stepped between him and Melicent. But their eyes 
had met, and a look had passed between them that would 
never be forgotten by either. And there was another 
who would remember it to the hour of his death. Neil 
Griffin had seen the look of yearning devotion upon one 
side, of anguish and tender forgiveness upon the other. 

The body of Judge Weir was lifted and borne to the 


262 


MAJ^CB. 


death-cart that had brought J^eil Griffin to the gallows. 
As the men were about to place it in the cart, a tall, pale 
gentleman came up and spread upon the floor of the rough 
vehicle the handsome cloak he had just taken from his 
shoulders. Stepping to a carriage near by, he took a dam- 
ask cushion from the seat and placed it also in the cart. 
Then he signed to the bearers to lay their burden down 
upon these. The same thin, pale gentleman then spoke 
to Hagar and oflered her his carriage to take herself and 
Melicent home. 

“ She could not ride in that thing with the coffin and 
the dead body,” he said, with a movement of his shoul- 
ders, half shudder, half shrug, and Melicent recognized 
in the thin, closely-shaved gentleman Colonel Archer, 
changed by the fever that' followed his wound, and still 
something of an invalid. Probably Hagar did not know 
him as the “ spy ” whom she had execrated so often. 

At first she declined to accept his offer of the carriage. 
The way was short, and she preferred to walk ; but she 
saw that Melicent was hardly able to stand. Melicent 
must ride, and it did seem hard for her to go in the death- 
cart with the coffin and a corpse in it. So, for once, she 
overcame her savage independence and accepted the car- 
riage for the sake of Melicent, who, exhausted and half 
fainting, hardly heard a word ^of what was being said. 
She only looked to see that the body in the cart was care- 
fully disposed, with Heil seated beside it, and then suf- 
fered herself to be led to the carriage and helped to a 
seat in its shaded recess. 

As he closed the door. Colonel Archer lingered an 
instant, looking compassionately at her white face and 
sorrowful eyes. 


MAJ^CH. 


263 


“ I deeply regret having been the cause of adding to 
your unhappiness, dear lady,’’ he said. I shall feel re- 
morse whenever I think of that sad face of yours. I 
would to God I had never stirred in this dreadful busi- 
ness, but had left revenge to the Great Avenger, as you 
prayed me to do ! I have done myself no good, and have 
brought much trouble upon others. It will make me a 
better man, I think. Will you shake hands with me, 
Melicent, and say that you will try to forgive me ? ” 

Her lips moved to murmur the word ‘‘ forgive,” and 
she laid her little, wan hand in his. He pressed it 
warmly. 

‘‘ If you ever need a friend, Melicent, I entreat you to 
believe in the brother’s interest I feel for you, and give 
me a chance to redeem myself in your eyes.” 

Then the carriage drove rapidly away, and soon set 
Melicent down at her new home. Melicent, the beauti- 
ful, the refined, the accomplished, at the “ Wildcat’s Den,” 
the companion of Mad Hagar and poor, half-witted Har- 
riet ! What a change ! What a contrast between her 
former beautiful homes and the rough log cottage she was 
now to occupy ! 

But Melicent hardly thought of the change in her 
outward surroundings. Old Hagar’s strong arms lifted 
her from the carriage as tenderly as though she had been 
an infant, and half supported her along the graveled walk, 
past Harriet’s tiny, sweet-smelling garden, and into Har- 
riet’s own clean little room, where, laid upon the fresh 
white bed, with Harriet to bathe her face, and kiss and 
wonder delightedly over the little, white, ringed hands, 
she fell into the deep sleep of weariness and exhaustion. 


264 : 


MAKCH, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The funeral was over ; the earth had received into its 
all-embracing bosom what remained of the proud, pas- 
sionate man who had sinned and suffered punishment from 
the hands of God, if not of man. Xo thought of reproach 
or of accusation crossed Melicent’s mind as she looked for 
the last time on the majestic face — nothing but grief and 
love. As she stood under the gray-clouded sky in the 
misty rain and watched the body lowered into the earth, 
a feeling of desolation came over her — a wild longing to 
lay her head, tired and giddy with the tossings of fate, 
upon that same calm resting-place. But she felt the sym- 
pathetic clasp of Manch’s little fingers upon her own, and 
she looked down and gathered strength to live from the 
loving eyes of her child. Her child ! There was sweet, 
pure comfort in the outflowing of this fountain of ma- 
ternal love that had been newly unsealed in her breast. 
At that moment it strengthened her to meet a look that 
might have had power to unnerve her, it was so full 
of passionate sympathy — of tender compassion ; for Mr. 
Avery stood opposite to her on the other side of the grave, 
with folded arms and pale, troubled face. He did not 
speak to her himself, but she saw him put his umbrella 
into the hands of the gray-haired minister and say a few 
words to him in an undertone ; and when the reverend 
gentleman came to her side vnth a respectful greeting and 
held over her an umbrella to shield her from the fine, misty 
rain she was scarcely conscious was falling, she knew by 
whom the kindly act was prompted. It was not the only 
proof she had of Mr. Avery’s interest. He had superin- 


MAJfCH. 


265 


tended all tlie arrangements for the burial, and had sent 
the plain but handsome coffin that received the body, and 
the hearse that bore it to the grave. He also sent the 
carriage that conveyed Melicent to the funeral. 

Old Hagar had bitterly resented what she called the 
interference of the meddling, high-headed mayor; but 
Heil’s quiet determination overcame her vehemence, and 
the coffin was brought in. He had seen that it was the 
wish of Melicent. He refused to send back the carriage 
as his mother insisted should be done, and she cried 
angrily : 

“ Are you the fool to let her ride in a carriage Tie has 
sent!” 

Heil answered gently : 

“We have none for her to go in, and she is not able 
to walk. I think it would hurt Mr. Avery’s feelings to 
refuse it. It was thoughtful and kind of him.” 

He did not know that Melicent was near until she 
stepped upon the porch from the doorway where she had 
been standing and thanked him by a look. That look, 
kind as it was, sent a pang to his heart. He felt she was 
grateful for his praise of Mr. Avery. 

Three days had passed since the funeral. Melicent 
had received a formal note from Mr. Avery, asking what 
disposition she wished to make of her furniture and other 
property that remained at his house. Did she want it 
sent to her present abode ? If so, she would please let 
him know. She answered in the same business way, re- 
questing him to let the furniture be taken to the auction- 
rooms, and to send her only the trunks in which were 
already packed her clothes, books, and some of her girl- 
ish keepsakes. A few hours later these trunks were 
12 


MAKCE, 


m 

brought, and with them came two others, filled with all 
the gifts she had received from Mr. Avery during their 
married life — ^books, toilet articles, and elegant souvenirs, 
among them a beautiful watch, an ormolu dressing-case, 
work-box, and writing-desk. 

Melicent permitted Harriet to have the rare delight 
of examining and unpacking the things. Down upon 
her knees by the open trunks,, the girl unwrapped paper 
parcels and peered into boxes and caskets, uttering little 
childish cries of admiration over each beautiful object, 
and holding it up for inspection, with her black eyes 
dancing and her curly hair quivering with delight. 

Neil was seated near, carving a toy ship for Manch, 
who sat at his side. Melicent’s eyes were bent upon a 
book, whose pages she turned too fast for any coherent 
reading. Was she afraid to trust herself to look at these 
souvenirs lest they should speak too eloquently of the one 
who gave them ? 

At length Harriet came upon a small, silver-inlaid, 
ebony casket that contained some pieces of jewelry — 
presents from Mr. Avery, which Melicent had not seen 
since she placed them in his trunk when she left his 
house to return to her father. Harriet lifted out a tiny, 
elegant chain, to which was attached a small enameled 
locket 

May I open it?” asked she; and, before an answer 
could be given, the spring gave w^ay and the case fell 
open in her hands. 

“ Oh ! w^hat a grand gentleman ! Why, it’s the mayor 
himself — the mayor that Pretty Lady used to ride with. 
What a beautiful mouth — sweet enough for a queen to 
kiss ! — and all smilin’ ; not solemn and grumptious as he 


MAJ^CR. 


267 




looked t’other day. Pretty Lady, why don’t you make 
him smile like he used to 1 Why don’t you ride with 
him some more in his grand carriage^ and wear his pic- 
ture around your neck ? ” 

She held up the miniature to Melicent and made a 
motion of throwing the chain around her neck. But 
Melicent put back the hand that held the picture with a 
quick, agitated gesture. 

“ Take it away, Harriet ; put it up, please,” she said. 
“ This casket must go back, and many of the other 
things.” 


‘‘ Oh ! will you send them hack — all your pretty 
things ? And your rings, too, with the writin’ inside of 
them ? You took ’em off last night ; I saw you cry in’ 
when you put ’em in the little box, and you kissed the 
plain one before you laid it away — 

‘‘ Oh, Harriet ! ” exclaimed Melicent, deeply distressed, 
for she knew that Neil’s eyes were upon her, and she 
felt the blood surge to her brow. 

Have I vexed you, Pretty Lady ? ” asked the simple 
creature, turning round on her knees, taking Melicent’s 
hands and patting and kissing them. “I won’t hurt the 
things, and I will put them all back so nice.” 

“ Yery well, my dear,” said Melicent, controlling her- 
self and speaking gently as she rose and went away. 

“ Father,” said Manch, “ you have cut off the figure- 
head.” 

‘^Have I? Yes, I see. I wasn’t thinking. Well, 
the ship’s spoiled, but Pll make you another this evening. 
My head aches now, and Pll try a little walk.” 

He went out. He walked slowly down the hill to the 
bayou — to the old ash, on whose great, gnarled roots he 


268 


MAJ^CH. 


and his Milly had sat and fished in the summer days he 
used to love to recall. Their memory had been sweet, if 
sad, un marred by any shadow save the tender one of re- 
gret. Then her spirit had seemed to hover about him — 
to be very near in dreams ; and in those moods, that were 
half dream and half memory, nothing but a breath had 
seemed to divide them. But now a gulf more deep than 
death appeared to yawn between them. Living, yet lost to 
him ! More and more, as he looked at and listened to her, 
did she come back in the likeness of the Milly that had 
been his, and more and more did the desolate aching in 
his heart increase as he felt that she could never be his 
Milly again. 

“ Free and happy ! ” Dick Allan’s words had seemed 
a mockery to him, even then in the hour of his deliver- 
ance from death. He had no faith in the promised happi- 
ness. He did not rebel against Fate ; he did not complain 
of his lot, or question its justice ; he was not cynical or 
repining ; but he had an instinctive doubt that any sun 
would shine into his life. 

And the instinct, it seemed, would prove prophetic. 
The freedom was not complete ; it had come too late. 
The years of fugitive life, of watchfulness, suspicion, and 
haunting fear, had left their traces on his mind more in- 
delibly than the marks of the chain-links upon his limbs. 
Every footfall startled him as though it was the tread of 
a pursuer ; he looked wildly into every face that passed ; 
he shrank from every strange voice or touch ; he hid him- 
self from the visitors that came to congratulate him upon 
his deliverance — some coming from curiosity, and a few out 
of admiration for the self-abnegating spirit he had shown. 
These last were very few. There were few who could 


MAJ^CH. 


269 


understand or appreciate such a crucifixion of self through 
devotion to another. “ A poor simpleton.’’ “ A crack- 
brained fellow.” “K spiritless dolt.” These epithets 
were bestowed upon him bj the many, and they marked 
the light in which his self-immolation was regarded. He 
himself did not see it in any heroic light. It had seemed 
to him a simple duty that he should shield Milly’s father 
in the first instance, since he had a sad, unexpressed con- 
viction that she loved her father better and would grieve 
more for his loss ; and he had also a humble belief that 
her father could do more to make her happy and advance 
her socially than he could do. 

When he was taken up and condemned the last time, 
his silence was due partly to his knowledge that, if he 
should speak now and denounce the real murderer, he 
would not be believed. It would be regarded as a lame 
invention, since there was no proof to corroborate his as- 
sertion, and the man he would have accused was supposed 
to have been dead for eight years. This was partly the 
reason of his silence, but not altogether. There were 
still more subtile motives : reverence for the memory of 
his lost wife ; the long habit of keeping her father’s se- 
cret as a sacred homage to her — as a kind of sacrifice upon 
her shrine; the feeling of the pilgrim who pours an 
offering of his own blood upon the shrine of his saint. 

These were among the less tangible influences that 
induced the silence of this man, whbse nature, though 
simple, was fine and sensitive. And because his nature 
was so fine and sensitive, the fugitive feeling of years had 
worn into it as the links of a chain into the more material 
flesh, until his present freedom from fear and pursuit 
was half a mockery. 


270 


MANCH, 


Free and liappy ! ” The words rang derisively in his 
ears as he sat on the gnarled roots of the well-remembered 
ash-tree, with the red, rain-swollen bayou murmuring 
hoarsely at his feet. He had been shown a glimpse of 
happiness to mock him, and it had vanished like his 
dreams of joy. He had been shown his Milly — alive 
and well, more beautiful than before ; and the next flash 
of the magic lantern had revealed her no longer his. She 
had drifted a long way off from him — farther off, it 
seemed, than when he thought her in heaven. 

With the trunks that came for Melicent, there had 
arrived also several articles of furniture — presents to her 
from Mr. Avery in the early weeks of their marriage. 
There were a fauteuil, a handsomely carved sewing-chair, 
a unique little chest of drawers, and two exquisite inlaid 
tables. 

Partly to divert her mind by employment, and partly 
through a woman’s natural taste for neatness and craving 
for home occupations, Melicent undertook to ‘‘put to 
rights ” the little room which she shared with Harriet, 
and to arrange in it a portion of the newly arrived furni- 
ture, and some of the ornaments and elegant trifles that 
Harriet had unpacked from the boxes. There was a large 
window at one end of the room, greatly disproportioned 
to the size of the apartment ; but Hagar had had the 
smaller window enlarged and suitably glazed to please 
her gentle, simple-minded daughter, to whom she was 
very indulgent, notwithstanding her manner to her was 
outwardly harsh. The girl made this window her be- 
loved resort, in winter and in summer. She put her 
flowers in its low, deep ledge, and trained a honeysuckle 
over it in a thick, beautiful arch. Melicent delighted 


MAJfCH. 


271 


her by draping the window with curtains of a rich green 
color with a raised arabesque design. The two then put 
one of the pretty tables near it, on which was set Meli- 
cent’s inlaid work-box. They then proceeded to set up 
the chest of drawers and decorate it with the elegant lit- 
tle toilet set of Sevres china. They hung some of the 
pictures upon the walls, ornamented the mantel-piece 
with an alabaster vase of flowers, and ranged the books 
and pretty knickknacks upon the shelves and mantel-piece, 
and wherever there was a place for them. 

‘‘ You’ve put your prettiest pictures here to one side, 
and these little white figures that look so sweet, and the 
other vase, and your nicest counterpane and pillow-cases. 
Pretty Lady, what made you do that ? ” 

‘‘ I will tell you,” said Melicent. “ They are for Neil 
and Manch. They like pretty things as well as we do, 
and their poor little room is so bare. Do you know what 
we can do while they are away fishing? We can carry 
these things over to their room and fix it up so nice they 
will think the fairies have been at work upon it.” 

Harriet assented with alacrity. She was willing to 
do any service for the “ Pretty Lady,” whom she wor- 
shiped as something more than mortal. She gathered up 
her arms full of things, and followed Melicent to the 
little one-roomed out-house which Neil and Manch occu- 
pied. It was neat, but very bare. A bed, a wash-stand, 
and two chairs were all the furniture it contained. 

Now, let us go briskly to work and change the looks 
of things,” said Melicent to her willing handmaid. 

To work they went, and in an hour feminine ingenu- 
ity and taste had transformed the cheerless room into a 
pretty chamber, made fresh and bright-looking by the 


272 


MAJ^CH. 


neat curtains hung at the windows and draped back with 
blue ribbons ; by the snowy Marseilles counterpane cover- 
ing the bed, the bright rug laid down before the hearth, 
the small but choice pictures hung upon the wall, and the 
handsome chair and beautiful little table which Harriet 
had brought over at Melicent’s suggestion. To give the 
finishing touch of brightness to the little room, Melicent 
arranged a vase full of Harriet’s prettiest flowers and set 
it upon the table. 

Melicent had taken more pleasure in these simple ar- 
rangements for Heil’s comfort than she had found in any 
occupation for many days. She smiled almost joyously 
as she listened to Harriet’s delighted exclamations. 

“Won’t Heil think it’s grand? And won’t Manch 
sleep like a bird in its nest when he lies in this nice bed ? 
Pretty Lady, I’ll run down in the field and bring mammy 
and Gabe to look at it ? ” 

“ Ho, no. They will be coming home presently. See, 
the shadows are growing long. Bring out your knitting 
and let us go and sit on the porch yonder. I will get the 
book with the pictures and show them to you, and read 
you the story I promised.” 

And when Heil and Manch came home with their 
fish, they saw Harriet sitting at Melicent’s feet, the knit- 
ting dropped in her lap, and her large, deer-like eyes fas- 
tened intently on Melicent, who was reading aloud a fas- 
cinating fairy story, illustrated by colored pictures, which, 
being explained by Melicent as she read, were a great 
help to the girl’s slender understanding. It is likely she 
was as much charmed by Melicent as by the story — by 
the music of her voice and the graceful fall of her hair, 
and the beauty of her white throat encircled by its deli- 


MAJ^CH. 


273 


cate ruffle — all of which the girl, who had a passionate 
enjoyment of beauty, noted with the rapturous admira- 
tion of a lover. 

‘‘How sweet she is! ” said Manch, looking at Meli- 
cent’s lovely figure, framed in the vine-arch of the little 
porch. “ And to think that she is my mother ! — a lady 
like her ! I can’t make it real to me somehow. I loo’: 
at her, and look at her, and she seems far off and above 
me, though she’s sweet and kind to me as can be. You 
understand, father — don’t you ? ” 

Heil nodded in silence. He could not have spoken 
just then. He knew the feeling in all its bitterness. 

“ Seems to me she ought to ’a’ had a nicer chap for a 
son — one of them fair-faced, book-learned fellows with 
shiny hair, what can read off outlandish lingo like a top, 
and’s got g’ography and figgers at their tongue’s end. I 
wish I wasn’t sunburnt and my hair wasn’t so unruly, 
and I could read my new ‘ Hobinson Crusoe ’ without a 
bobble. But I’ll learn yet ; I’ll do my best to please her, 
and maybe some day she won’t be ashamed of me. She 
says she isn’t now — and she likes me, I know she does. 
She likes you too, father ; I see her brushing your coat 
so careful the other day, when you left it off, and she 
told me I must be loving and good to you always, for 
you were noble and true ; them were her words — noble 
and true.” 

As he prattled on in this fashion, he was helping his 
father spread his cast-net upon a clump of myrtle-bushes 
to dry. 

Then, turning to the well close by, he whirled the 
windlass briskly, and bringing up a bucket of cool water, 
poured it over the fish that Neil had turned out from the 


m 


MAJ^CH. 


bag into the tub placed under the well-spout. Another 
bucket of water tilled to brimming the white, scoured 
pail that hung under the well-shed, and, taking this in 
his hand, Manch went on to his little domicile, saying to 
ISTeil: 

“We’ll wash off some of this dust, and then go 
yonder and get mother to play the guitar for us.” 

As he entered the house, he stopped, looked around, 
set down his pail, and stared about again in wonder. 
Then he beckoned to Neil, who was just coming up. 

“ Here’s Aladdin been here with his lamp since we 
went away,” he said. “ Just look around ! How nice ! 
Ain’t that bed beautiful ? And that flower-pot and the 
pictures ? It’s all her work, father ; she’s the fairy that 
did it. Here’s the red ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress,’ full of pic- 
tures, and here’s a footstool she worked with her own 
fingers. She likes us — don’t you see? I told you she 
did.” 

He did not fully understand why it was that a pain- 
ful emotion quivered across Neil’s face as he looked 
around a moment, and then, leaning his head on the 
mantel-board, stifled a sigh. 

“ She pities me,” he thought. “ She can not love me, 
and she wishes to make it up by kindness.” 

In a moment he had crushed the selfish pang and 
raised his head. 

“ She has taken her pretty things to fix us up, Manch, 
and we rough fellows can do without them, can’t we ? ” 
he said cheerfully. 

“ But if she likes to let us have them, father ? ” 

“ Ah ! well, if she lihes it, we’ll do the same and 
thank her for being so good.” 


MAJV'CH. 


275 


A few moments afterward tlie two, neatly washed 
and combed, joined Melicent and Harriet in the porch 
and thanked them for the transformation wrought in 
their little sleeping-room — Manch with boyish enthu- 
siasm, and Keil with his habitual, sweet earnestness, 
dashed with the shyness of look and the flitting color 
that marked his present intercourse with Melicent. She 
herself was moved by conflicting feelings whenever she 
met the wistful look of those large, gentle eyes. Tender 
interest and compassionate regard were the feelings she 
entertained for him. Something in his eyes seemed to 
crave but not expect more, and that look smote her with 
self-reproach. Both of them avoided all mention of the 
past. Melicent took notice that he had never called her 
name, and neither had ever made an allusion to the days 
when they were all in all to each other ; but she felt that 
they must be strong in his memory at this moment, as he 
sat down near her and looked at her sitting in a simple, 
home-like dress on the rough porch of his mother’s house. 

To cover her embarrassment, she remarked playfully 
to Manch : 

If I had had a bracket, I would have put your fa- 
vorite saint — old Santa Claus, you know — at the head of 
your bed, Manch. I have him here, as jolly as ever, you 
see,” taking an image of the rotund, jovial old saint out 
of her work-box and holding it up. “ If I had a bracket, 
I would set him up where he could smile at you as you 
slept.” 

“ Why, Ishmael — father, I mean — can carve beautiful 
brackets out of cedar cigar-boxes and thin slabs of ma- 
hogany and walnut and such like. Many a basket full ot 
brackets I’ve sold for him — haven’t I, father ? I’ll bring 


276 


MAJ^CH. 


you a piece of cedar and let you begin to whittle now, 
while Harriet gets the guitar for mother to play a little 
for us, before I go to scale the fine mess of fish we’re to 
have for supper.” 

It was a pretty, home-like picture that was to be seen 
on Hagar’s porch a little while afterward, as the sunset 
slanted through the oak-boughs, and the humming-birds 
darted about among the late jasmines in Harriet’s gar- 
den. Melicent was the central figure, with her guitar 
upon her lap, her slender hand playing with its strings, 
the breeze lifting the light curls on her forehead, and her 
eyes cast down, resting upon Manch, who sat at her feet 
with his head leaning against her and his heart swelling 
with love for his newly found mother. On the other 
side of her, Harriet was sitting on her low stool, raptur- 
ously absorbed in the music, and unconsciously keeping 
time to it, by nodding her head and disheveling the short 
black locks that Melicent had just smoothly curled. 

Neil, with the piece of wood for the bracket-carving 
in his hand, watched the group and listened to the music 
until his eyes filled with tears. 

How much she looked like Milly in that simple dress 
and with the simply arranged hair ! If he only dared 
ask her for one of those old songs they used to love to 
sing together — “ The Willow-Tree,” or ‘‘ Come, my Love, 
with Me ! ” The request was trembling on his lips, wheti 
Manch, who had opened the music-book that lay closed 
on a chair before her, pointed to a song and begged that 
she would sing it. 

She complied, but faltered and paused, and seemed to 
regret having begun it. They urged her to continue, and 
she went on until she came to the last verse : 


MAJVCH. 


m 


“ There comes no answer to my heart — 

Memory and hope are vain ; 

I only know we live apart, 

And dare not love again.” 

Here her voice broke into husky tones and her bosom 
heaved with stifled feeling. She rose hastily and went 
into her room. Manch glanced at ^N’eil, and saw that he 
looked distressed. Harriet rose to follow Melicent, but 
Neil gently restrained her. 

“ She would rather be alone,” he said. 

Then he walked off with the slow, listless step that 
tells of a burdened heart. 

At this moment a horseman rode up to the gate, dis- 
mounted, and came toward them. The firm step, the 
tall figure, the graceful bearing, were easily recognized. 
It was Mr. Avery. He lifted his hat to Hagar, who had 
come in from the field and was standing on the porch. 

“ I wish to see Melicent,” he said. “ Is she here 

The old dame eyed him with a glance of dislike and 
suspicion. 

‘‘ What do you want with her f ” she asked at last. 
“You’ve got nothing to do with my son’s wife. She 
don’t belong with you nor with your set.” 

“ I have something to deliver to her.” 

“ Give it to me. I’ll put it in her hands.” 

“ No, madam,” returned Mr. Avery with firm dignity ; 
“I prefer to speak to her myself. I have money from 
the sale of her furniture, which I wish to pay over into 
her hands and take her receipt for it. It is a matter of 
business.” 

That word “ business ” is a potent talisman. It is 
allowed many privileges. It opens the most jealously 


278 


MAJ^CH. 


guarded doors and intrudes into the sacredest privacjo 
It had its effect even upon Hagar. She hesitated an in- 
stant, and then reluctantly waved her hand for the un- 
welcome visitor to go in — indicating the door of Meli- 
cent’s room. He went up to it and knocked softly. Re- 
ceiving no answer, he turned the handle of the door and 
entered. She stood at the window, her face averted from 
the door. She thought the intruder was Harriet, and did 
not look around until he softly called her name. At the 
sound of his voice she turned quickly around. His un- 
expected presence at that moment of weakness and emo- 
tion overcame her. She made a step forward and fal- 
tered, trembling in every limb. He caught her wavering 
figure in his arms and held her an instant close to his 
breast, looking down into her face with passionate earnest- 
ness. Then, as the color flowed to her cheeks and she 
opened her eyes, he silently placed her in her chair by 
the window and seated himself beside her. 

Why did you come ? ” she asked reproachfully. 

‘‘ Why did I come ? Have I no heart ? Have I no 
desire to know concerning the welfare of one who was so 
lately my wife — my own — who is still my idol ? ” 

Then, commanding himself, he added more calmly : 

“ I came to bring your money, Melicent. The furni- 
ture has been sold.” 

He laid a thick roll of bank-bills upon the table. 

“ That seems a much larger amount than I had any 
right to expect,” she said. ‘‘ Will you tell me who pur- 
chased the furniture ? ” 

“ I did, Melicent. Did you think I would let it go 
out of my possession — every piece of it made sacred by 
your touch ? ” 


MAJfCH. 


279 


“ Mr. Avery, I can not take any more than the furni- 
ture is worth. I am already too deeply under obliga- 
tions — ” 

“Do not talk to me of obligations, Melicent. As for 
the money, take it, and assure yourself it is no more than 
the furniture was worth. I dared not offer you more. I 
knew you were offended with me, and rightly, for my 
unjust suspicions, my cruel coldness toward you. I knew 
you could not forgive me — ” 

“ I have freely, fully forgiven you, Aleck.” 

, “ Ah ! that is kind and sweet of you, dearest — more 

than I deserve. But you do not know how terribly I 
was tempted — how torn my heart was with jealousy. 
And now, when all doubt is cleared away — when I know 
your truth and purity, never to doubt them again — when 
I understand the trials you have gone through — now, I 
can not console you, can not make amends for the past 
by my greater love and care for your happiness. I am 
not even permitted to offer you the sympathy of a friend, 
for a mere friend I can never be to you, Melicent. So 
you arp utterly lost to me — given up to another — and 
that other no mate for you, unworthy of you.” 

“ He is good, and noble, and true-hearted. 1 am not 
worthy of himy 

“ May he always be kind to you, Melicent ! I know 
he has acted a noble part, but he is not a fit husband for 
you — you, so refined in mind, in person.” 

“ He has the true refinement,” she said. 

“ He has displayed it certainly,” he returned bitterly. 
“ He has shown it by claiming you with such indecent 
haste — by taking possession of you, as though you were a 
chattel, before you had time to crush and bury any feel- 


280 


MAKCH. 


ings that might stand between a reunion with him — be- 
fore you had time to consult your own heart, that might 
have chosen a solitary life, at least for a time — ” 

“ You mistake ! ” cried Melicent. “ Oh ! if you 
knew — if you knew what delicacy he has shown. He 
did not claim me. It was not he who brought me here. 
I came with his mother, hardly conscious where I went ; 
but, indeed, where else was there for me to go ? ” 

“ What is it you say, Melicent ? — he has not claimed 
you for his wife ? ” 

“ He has not spoken one word that could be construed, 
into such a claim. He has not even touched my hand or 
called my name, or intruded himself upon me in any 
way.” 

“ And yet he loves you so, Melicent. To do what he 
has done, he must love you with devotion.” 

“ He does. Oh ! I would to Heaven he did not,” she 
cried, with the tears rushing to her eyes. “ Poor, faithful, 
tender heart ! ” 

“ Do you not love him, Melicent ? ” 

“ I think I could die to make him happy,” she an- 
swered. 

‘‘ Then you love him, surely — do you not ? ” 

She raised her eyes, suffused with tears, to his, that 
he might read her answer in their mournful depths. 

‘‘ Alas ! ” she said, and bowed her face upon her 
hand. 

He drew the hand gently away, carried it to his lips, 
and then held it closely clasped in his. 

‘‘You have taken off your rings, my dearest,” he 
said ; “ the pledge of our betrothal, as well as the mar- 
riage-ring. You wish to put away from you all reminders 


MAJSrCH. 


281 


of the relation that once was dear to you — that still is 
dear to me, Melicent ? ” 

“ It is best that there should be no reminders.” 

“ Then you will cast me off utterly ?— you will give 
yourself to him, though there is no law that obliges you 

to do so ? The law would give you your freedom if ” 

“ Is there no obligation higher than law ? ” she asked, 
rising and standing before him. ‘‘ Is not duty above law, 
and gratitude above both ? I should despise myself, I 
should be the veriest ingrate on earth, if I forsook him 
now^ after all he has done and suffered because of me. I 
have blighted his life. I owe it to him, as the only repa- 
ration in my power, to honor and cherish him with wifely 
duty as long as his life shall last.” 

“ And you will do this, Melicent ? ” 

“ If he asks it of me,” she said, with gathering firm- 
ness. ‘‘ This I have resolved upon ; this is the only duty 
that seems clear to me in the future. And since I have 
resolved upon it, it is best that we do not meet again, 
Aleck. It can result in no good to us, and it can but 
give pain to him ; and I must not cause him another pang 
that I can prevent.” 

‘‘Is this your final decision, Melicent?” 

“ It is. My conscience constrains me to abide by it.” 
“It is well. I think you have never loved me truly, 
or you could not talk so calmly about conscience and 
gratitude, knowing to what desolation your words con- 
sign me. I will obey your wishes. I will not seek your 
presence again. Farewell ! ” 

He clasped her cold hand an instant, let it fall, and, 
looking once at her trembling lips that could not trust 
themselves to speak, he turned from her and left the 


282 


MAJ^CH. 


room. Then she sank down where she stood, pressed 
her face upon the window-ledge, and let her restrained 
feelings find vent in a burst of passionate weeping. 
Presently some one knelt by her and softly put back 
the hair from her face, smoothing it with the gentlest 
touches as she whispered : 

“ Pretty Lady, don’t cry so. You’ll break my heart.” 

There was a witness to the interview between Meli- 
csnt and Mr. Avery. Outside, at the window which 
opened on the porch, stood Hagar eagerly peering through 
the half-parted curtains. As she looked, her face assumed 
a malignant expression, her eyes blazed fiercely, her bony 
hand clinched and trembled as it hung by her side. She 
heard a step behind her, and turning around, she saw 
Neil. She caught his arm and drew him to her forcibly. 

“ Look ! ” she cried, pointing to the space between 
the curtains. 

Involuntarily, his eyes followed the direction of her 
finger. He saw the sight that had aroused her anger — 
Mr. Avery sitting near Melicent, bending over her, hold- 
ing her hand in his, and gazing at her with impassioned 
fondness. He turned off, his face a shade whiter and 
more haggard. 

“ Come away, mother,” he said. Don’t be spying 
her movements ; it is an insult to her.” 

‘‘ An insult to her ! What makes it one ? Isn’t she 
one of us ? Haven’t you and I a right to see what she 
does ? Why don’t you claim her ? Why don’t you force 
her to own you as her husband, and dare him to come 
near her ? ” 

“I would not force myself upon her for my right 
hand ; I would not intrude on her feelings ; I would not 


MAKCH. 


283 


impose myself upon her pity. Ko, no ; don’t ever speak 
to her that way — as if I had any claim upon her. Let 
things be as they are, mother.” 

“ But you love her,” retorted the old woman, with a 
keen glance into her son’s face. “ You’d die for her this 
minute — ^you soft-hearted fool ! ” 

“ I love her better than my own life,” he said sadly. 

“And you shall have her in spite of him. What! 
because she has white hands and delicate ways, I suppose 
she’s too good for you — too good to stay with us ! My 
fine gentleman there tells her so, no doubt. He is the 
proper mate for her ; he is the one to take her to his fine 
home, as David did the wife of Uriah. Let him take 
care ; he’ll find worse than a Hathan in his path. Look 
at him now,” she continued, turning to the window and 
glaring through the narrow space in between the curtains. 
“ See how he looks at her ; and she — I tell you, boy,” she 
exclaimed, suddenly wheeling round and grasping his 
arm, “ she loves him.” 

“ I know it, mother.” 

“ And what will you do ? ” 

“ Do ? I can do nothing but die. That is the only 
way to set things right and make her happy.” 

“ Die ! yes, that’s just you. You’ll go off somewhere 
like a sick deer, and die, -and leave her to him. I’d Tcill 
him first ! ” 

“ What good would that do ? It would only break 
her heart.” 

“ She’s broke yours.” 

“ She’s not to blame for that. She could not help 
outgrowing the liking she had for me, when she was 
little Milly, She’s grown since then — ^body and mind 


284 : 


MAJrCH. 


too — and she’s found a mate better suited to her. She’s 
not to blame if she loves him. Wasn’t he her husband ? 
Hasn’t her beautiful head lain on his bosom ? She might 
be his now, and happy as the day’s long in his home, if 
it wasn’t for me. It’s me that stands between her and 
happiness. Isn’t it better for me to die ? ” 

He pulled his hat down over his eyes, turned away 
from her, and went out of the house. She looked after 
him a moment, and her features grew set into an expres- 
sion of hard determination. 

That shan’t be,” she muttered. ‘‘ He shall have 
her ; she shall live with him ; she shall never leave this 
place. I’ll see to that. And my fine gentleman had 
better look out.” 

Still muttering, she went out and made her way 
to the foot of the hill. There she waited by the road- 
side until Mr. Avery appeared. When he approached, 
she stepped out into the path before him and stopped 
him. 

Mind you don’t come here again,” she said, with 
her savage eye transfixing him. “ Mind you have no- 
thing to do with her by word, look, or message. If you 
do, it will be worse for you.” 

“ Do you think I regard your threats, my good wo- 
man ? ” he said, with a smile of .contemptuous pity. 

‘‘ If jmu don’t think now that they are worth caring 
for, you will some day, as sure as you sit there. If you 
don’t mind them now, for your own sake, maybe you will 
for her that you pretend to care so much for. By trying 
to see her and keep her in mind of you, you’ll only make 
her bed the harder. She’ll suffer for it as long as she 
stays here ; and she’s not going off. If she don’t stay 


MAj^CB. 


m 


out of regard for my son, after all he’s gone through be- 
cause of her, I’ll find other ways to keep her. You may 
depend on that, and all you do to make her think of you 
will only be the worse for her. So go, and don’t come 
here another time.” 

She dropped the bridle she had grasped, and, turning 
her back on him, walked away. He rode on slowly and 
thoughtfully. That last threat of Hagar’s had its effect. 
He did not fear for himself, but he had heard enough of 
the old dame’s malignancy to make him fear that she 
might persecute Melicent — perhaps do her some terrible 
harm — if she was further exasperated by his visits or his 
interference. He resolved to keep away from Melicent 
for the present, and to watch over her interests indirectly. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Weeks of soft Indian-summer weather passed away — 
not unhappily for Melicent. She .found pure pleasure 
and consolation in the society of her son. It was a com- 
fort to find that, in spite of the rough surroundings and 
absence of culture in his life, his heart had received no 
taint. Good impulses seemed to have sprung up spon- 
taneously and grown without training, unless they may 
have received a direction from the gentle infiuence of 
Neil. But Manch was less timid than Neil. He was an 
outspoken, honest, affectionate child, quick-tempered but 
generous and forgiving, with a vein of originality and 
quaint humor in his composition. Melicent would have 
been interested in him had there been no tie of blood be- 


286 


MAJ^CH. 


tween them, and would have found it a pleasant task to 
teach one so eager to learn and so grateful for instruc- 
tion. 

Wliatever sad thoughts and heart-sinkings Melicent 
may have had in her solitary hours, she tasted the happi- 
ness of giving pleasure to others. She bought (through 
her agent, Manch, who was a capital hand at a purchase) 
a number of little comforts and luxuries for the family 
household ; liner ware and better food for the table, and 
a supply of such books, magazines, and papers as she 
thought would awaken the interest and extend the mental 
range of those for whom they were intended. She read 
these aloud to the household in the afternoons and length- 
ening evenings, when they were collected in Hagar’s room, 
which was a pleasant place since Melicent had added to its 
habitual tidiness the comfortable charm of neat curtains, 
a shaded lamp, and a few articless of cottage furniture. 
The quick perception and active imagination of her lis- 
teners seized with avidity upon the new food thus pre- 
sented. Even Hagar, with her unlighted and forgotten 
pipe in her hand, would sit in the door and listen in- 
tently to the lively or pathetic sketches of life, the rem- 
iniscences of travel, or sometimes to the quaint legends 
and fairy tales of Hans Andersen. 

Harriet, sitting on a stool at Melicent’ s feet, was al- 
ways her most attentive auditor, listening with bright, 
intent eyes and changing looks, though it was hard 
to determine whether she understood all that was read, 
or only reflected the varying expressions in Melicent’s 
face. 

The evening readings and the entertaining conversa- 
tion of Melicent were a blessing to poor Gabriel Griflin. 




287 


They brought to his face the first smile, the first bright, 
interested expression it had worn in many weeks. They 
lifted him out of the gloomy, taciturn mood in which he 
had been plunged ever since he found out how cruelly he 
had been deceived by the French siren who had wiled 
him into betraying his brother. When he discovered 
that through his weakness Neil had been taken and con- 
demned to die, his remorse was terrible. Unable to bear, 
in addition to his own self-reproach, the abuse of ITagar, 
he hid himself in the woods, and came near falling a vic- 
tim to starvation. 

Whether she taUced or read, Melicent was sure of an 
appreciative listener in Neil. He was deficient in intel- 
lectual grasp and of course in education ; but he had a 
finely organized nature for all that. He possessed the 
swift sympathies, the subtile perceptions, the keen sensi- 
bilities that make one companionable and responsive. 
After all, such a nature as this is infinitely more inter- 
esting and lovable than one of a higher culture and 
colder character. 

Neil was possessed of a good deal of mechanical in- 
genuity, and could handle tools with almost the neatness 
and dexterity of a skilled workman. Both from the wish 
to please Melicent and to be employed, he set himself to 
carrying out all the small improvements she suggested on 
the place, and, under their united auspices, the ‘‘ Wildcat’s 
Den ” became transformed into a comfortable and even 
pretty abode. With the aid of a hand or two hired by 
Melicent, there were soon new palings around the yard, 
a rustic balustrade to the porch, new windows with shades 
and curtains ; the spaces between the well-hewn logs of 
which the house was built were filled in with plaster, and 


288 


MAXCIL 


the building and fences received an ample coating of 
stone-colored wash. 

J^eil built a little summer-house for Harriet’s climb- 
ers, and he and Manch brought jasmine-vines from the 
woods and planted around it. The golden afternoons of- 
ten tempted them with Melicent and Harriet out into the 
woods, where the trees were taking gorgeous autumn tints 
and the purple haze rested on the hill-tops, making them 
seem dream-like and beautiful. When Manch saw Meli- 
cent seated under his favorite ash-tree by the bayou, her 
hat laid aside and her eyes full of smiles as she surveyed 
the heap of “ treasures ” he had taken out from their old 
repository in his hollow tree, which he had named the 
“Savings Bank,” he would have been perfectly happy 
but for the cloud he saw creep over his father’s face. The 
old ash-tree had associations for Heil also, and the recol- 
lection of loving looks, and words, and kisses, came to 
him at that moment with the bitter sense that they were 
for ever things of the past. He put it aside, however, 
and listened with gentle interest to Manch’s lively account 
of his first meeting with his unknown mother, when, 
riding upon Monsoon, she had “ scared him up ” from the 
bushes ; of the fright he had given her by being stunned 
when the horse stepped upon him ; of the progress they 
made toward acquaintance under the old ash-tree; her 
patronage of his bird business, from which he had now 
retired, and her interest in his original “ Savings Bank,” 
with its treasure of odd findings and scraps of books. 

“ I’m a rich chap since then,” said Manch. “ I have 
whole books with backs to them, and a trunk to put them 
in. The good fairy has come to me, as she did to the 
young folks in the story-books ; only instead of being a 


MAJYCH. 


289 


little, shriveled old godmother, she’s my own mother — 
the sweetest and dearest mother a boy ever had.” 

One afternoon they made a longer excursion than 
usual — out to a certain pecan-tree, which Manch had re- 
ported to be full of nuts. The way led across the bayou 
and the road that ran on the other side. It was an after- 
noon of rare beauty. The mellow sunshine sifted through 
the gold and scarlet - tinted leaves ; there was a deli- 
cious softness in the air, and a stillness broken only by 
the cawing of the crows and the chattering of the squir- 
rels in the tall pecan-trees. 

The spell of the wild woods wrought upon Neil. The 
artificial barriers that had seemed to separate Melicent so 
widely from him disappeared under the free, broad influ- 
ence of nature. As she walked home by his side in the 
sunset, and he looked at her sweet face, shaded by the 
simple straw hat, he longed to take her hand in his and 
walk, as they had often done, through these same woods, 
hand in hand. 

A bird flew up in their path. They looked at each 
other. The same recollection flashed through the minds 
of both. It was at this very spot, under a dogwood-tree 
not far from the road, that Melicent had once found the 
two large, clouded eggs of the whippoorwill, laid upon 
the bare ground, from which the mother-bird had flown 
up in just such a way as the bird did at this moment. 
Here she had come with Neil every evening at sunset 
until the eggs turned into two queer little balls of yellow 
down. 

“ This is the same tree,” said Neil softly, as he looked 
into her eyes. ‘‘ I wonder if it is the same bird come 
back to visit her old nest ? ” 

13 


290 


MAJTCH. 


The words were simple, but the look, the tone, made 
the faint color drop out of Melicent’s cheeks. It was the 
first time he had brought up a circumstance of mutual 
recollection ; it was his first allusion to their past com- 
panionship. Melicent felt as though it was a withdrawal 
of the curtain of silence and reserve that he had permitted 
to fall between them. She trembled, and, leaning against 
the tree, said : 

“ Let us wait for Manch and Harriet.” 

Then she discovered she had not her gloves. 

“ I must have left them at the pecan-tree,” she said. 

Heil went back at once to get them, leaving her 
standing under the dogwood-tree. There was an under- 
growth of sassafras-bushes around it, and she did not see 
how near she was to the road until she heard the sound 
of wheels and saw a buggy approaching, drawn by two 
horses, whose proud shapes had a familiar look. They 
were driven by a gentleman, who had a lady by his side. 
As they came nearer, she recognized Mr. Avery and Miss 
Bradwell. They did not see her; Mr. Avery’s pale, 
handsome face, lighted with a smile, was turned to his 
companion, whose eyes were lifted to his while she talked 
with much animation. 

Melicent noted his attitude and air of gallant atten- 
tion ; her bright color, her eyes that sparkled under the 
plumes of her hat. She — Melicent — stood there unrec- 
ognized, unthought of. Her heart, that had throbbed 
so wildly when she first recognized’ him, stood suddenly 
still, pierced by keen jealousy. A wave of desolation 
swept over her. 

“ He has given me up ! He has ceased to care for 
me ! O merciful Father, how miserable I am 1 ” she 


291 

cried, clasping her hands in the sudden anguish of the 
moment. 

She did not hear a step which had approached her, 
now walk softly away. She did not know that Neil 
had stood behind her and heard her exclamation. 

A few moments after, Manch came up with Harriet. 

“Mother, here are your gloves,” he said. “I met 
father, and he gave them to me. He says we must go 
on and not wait for him.” 

Melicent felt at once a chill apprehension that he had 
seen her agitation, and that it had wounded him. She 
took Harriet’s hand and walked home in silence. Manch 
was also unwontedly taciturn and dispirited, and Harriet, 
whose moods reflected those she loved, looked at them in 
her childlike, puzzled way, and forbore to ask questions 
or to trouble them with her prattle. 

When they reached the house, Manch set down his 
basket of nuts and hurried back. At the foot of the hill 
he turned off into a little unused path that he had often 
trod. He hastened on almost in a run, for twilight was 
closing in. He reached the old live-oak tree and parted 
its heavy shroud of moss. Underneath, it was almost 
dark, and an owl, far up in the moss-muffled branches, 
sent forth a single unearthly scream. He made his way 
to the fisherman’s hut. His heart sickened as he heard a 
low groan within. As he entered the dark, damp room, 
he saw a form seated on the bench beside the unlighted 
hearth, the head bent down upon the hands. It was the 
old, remembered attitude. Manch went up to him and 
put his arm around his neck. Neil looked around. 

“ Is it you ? ” he asked, in a husky voice ; and draw- 
ing the child to him, he wrapped him tightly in his 


292 


MAJVCH. 


arms, and sat there silent for some moments. At last 
he said : 

“ It is late, and damp under these trees. Why did 
you come here, Manch ? ” 

“ Because I knew you were here. Oh, father, why did 
you come to this place ? ” 

“ It'S the only place I’m ht for, boy. I can’t stay 
yonder, Manch ; I can’t bear it. I’m only fit company 
for the owls and bats,” he added, trying to force a little 
lightness into his voice. “ I had better come back and 

O 

live here the rest of my days.” 

“ Oh, father, father ! In this wretched, uncomfortable 
place ! Think how unhappy it will make 4^/*.” 

‘‘ I make her miserable anyway. There is only one 
thing I can do to render her happy.” 

He did not say what that one thing was, but Manch 
knew instinctively when he felt the convulsive clasp of 
his father’s hand and the hot tear that fell upon his fore- 
head. He knew that Neil meant that the one thing he 
could do for Melicent would be to remove the obstacle of 
his life^ which stood between her and her union with the 
man she loved. 

Some minutes passed in silence; then Neil said 
gently : 

“ Manch, it is late ; you must go back ; they will be 
uneasy.” 

‘‘ I can’t go without you, father.” 

“ You must not stay in this damp, dismal place. It 
would distress your mother, my boy.” 

“ I will stay where you do.” 

Would you live with me here in this wretched hut, 
Manch ? or would you go with me wandering into distant 


MAJfCH. 


293 


places — often foot-sore and weary, without money to buy 
food or shelter ? ’’ 

“ I would go with you wherever you went, father. I 
would leave all to follow you ; you need me most,” said 
the boy, clasping his father’s neck more closely with his 
slender arm and laying his cheek to his, as in the prison- 
days. 

He spoke no more, and did not move until Heil, rising 
slowly, said : 

‘‘ Let us go back. It will not do for you to stay here 
any longer. The fog is rising from the bayou, and we 
have no fire to keep down its bad effects.” 

And hand in hand they returned through the dusk, 
and met at the gate the anxious face of Melicent. She 
asked no questions then, but she knew in her heart where 
they had been, and she lost sight of her own sorrow in 
her sympathy for Heil. Pretending to scold them, she 
playfully took a hand of each (how the touch of her soft 
fingers thrilled the man who loved her so !), and drew 
them into the house, where she poured out for them cups 
of steaming coffee (best antidote for malarial fog), and 
talked as cheerfully as she could to dispel the sadness she 
could not fail to see in the face of Neil, reflected, in spite 
of himself, in the countenance of Manch. 

The next day Neil was ill with one of his old rheu- 
matic fevers, and Melicent took her place at his bedside, 
and nursed him with untiring faithfulness day and night 
while his sickness lasted. One night, when the fever 
was at its height, and she was watching him alone, he 
tossed restlessly and moaned her name. She looked at 
him a moment, hesitating, and then bent down and kissed 
his forehead — his lips. He opened his eyes and looked 


294 


MAJfCIt. 


at her with sudden recognition ; a glow of unutterable 
happiness overspread his face, and was succeeded bj a 
look of peace. After that, he was tranquil and raved no 
more, and next morning the physician pronounced him 
greatly better. 


CHAPTEK XXI. 

As Xeil became convalescent, there was one circum- 
stance that forced itself upon him, though it seemed to 
have escaped the attention of the rest. Hagar had always 
been so wild and strange in her ways, that any additional 
degree of singularity was only set down as some new 
phase of her natural eccentricity. But her conduct now 
betrayed the influence of an all-absorbing mania. Xeil 
perceived it, and it gave him great uneasiness, even ap- 
prehension ; for this mania had Melicent for one of its 
objects. Hagar’s feeling for Melicent was a singular one. 
Though she often spoke to her harshly and scornfully, 
she secretly regarded her with almost passionate admira- 
tion and pride. She gloried in her beauty, her accom- 
plishments, her reflnement — “flne lady ways,” as she 
termed them, which she affected to hold in contempt. 
She had determined from the first that she would keep 
Milicent with her at all hazards— a resolve which had its 
origin partly in her dislike for the “ high-headed mayor,” 
who in her eyes represented the Imo she hated so bitter- 
ly, conceiving that it had wronged her, and partly in her 
admiration for Melicent and her love for Xeil, which re- 
sembled the mother instinct of a savage or an untamed 




295 


animal, ready to fight and to die for its offspring, but 
unable to express itself in gentle words or tender actions. 

It was this determination of Hagar to keep Melicent 
with her as one of her family, and this unreasoning pre- 
judice against Mr. Avery, that Neil saw had grown into 
insanity. He felt it intuitively when he looked into her 
eyes as they rested on Melicent, or when she spoke of 
Mr. Avery or heard his name mentioned. Though her 
feeling for these two was widely different, she was crazed 
in respect to both. Mr. Avery had apprehended truly 
when he feared that she was capable of going almost any 
length to prevent Melicent from leaving her house and 
returning (as she supposed she would do) to him — capable 
of using force or stratagem — of injuring or maiming her 
in some manner, so that she should not be able to go 
away. And in her hatred of Mr. Avery, she was equally 
capable of seizing any opportunity to inflict an injury 
upon him. 

On the day following the election, when it became 
certain that Mr. Avery was the successful candidate, old 
Hagar was almost wild with rage. The boom of the 
town cannon, and the united shouts of many voices huz- 
zaing for ‘‘Alexander Avery,” could be heard in the still- 
ness of the evening air by the group who stood on the 
porch of the Griffin cottage. Hagar, eagerly watching 
Melicent, could see a flash of pride and pleasure light up 
her face as the acclamations were borne to her ears. She 
colored as she met the keen eye fastened upon hers, and 
presently retired into her room. Hagar looked after her 
with a lowering brow, and, stalking up to IS^eil, said in a 
fierce whisper : 

“ She rejoices at his election. She loves him still. 


296 


MAJfCH, 


It is that holds her back from you. She will keep on 
loving and grieving after him. I told you he would have 
to be put out of the way. There is no help for it. If 
you are too weak-hearted, I will have to do it myself.” 

The third day after this was a fete day for nearly all 
the town. “Welcome,” a picturesque village and railway 
station twenty miles east of Alluvia, was fixed upon as 
the scene of a congratulatory assemblage and grand ban- 
quet in 'honor of Mr. Avery. News of it reached the 
Griffins, and one of Manch’s acquaintances, who came out 
early in the morning to borrow “ four bits,” expressed a 
sociable wish that he should make one of the excursion- 
ists, as it was certain there would be plenty of barbecued 
beef, beer, and gingerbread ; and after dinner “ a man 
and his cat ” would go up in a balloon. Old Hagar indig- 
nantly flouted the idea of her grandson tacking himself 
to a set that went for the purpose of cracking their throats 
shouting for Alexander Avery. She found an errand 
for Manch which sent him to another part of the yard. 
Then she leaned over the fence and inquired of the boy 
at what time the excursion-train would return. 

“ Nine o’clock to-night,” was the reply. 

“ And will Mr. Avery be on it ? ” 

“ Sure,” said the boy, who was a printer’s devil. “ I 
heard him tell the boss up at our office he would be back 
to-night, and would come up in the morning and correct 
the proof of a letter or a speech of his’n they’re puttin’ 
into print.” 

Hagar gave a satisfied nod and turned away with a 
low chuckle. 

Neil had heard her question and noted her peculiar 
manner. They made him vaguely uneasy. As the day 




291 


drew to a close, he became nervous and restless. At dust 
the sky was overcast, the moon faintly struggling through 
a vaporous veil, the air heavy, and occasional lightning- 
flashes playing across a band of lurid clouds in the east. 
There seemed to !N^eil to be storm and thunder lurking in 
the moral atmosphere as well as the physical. He felt 
strangely oppressed, and to drive off the feeling he took 
down his old solace, the violin, and, sitting out on the 
porch, played snatches of melancholy tunes and sang 
scraps of sweet old songs to a soft accompaniment. Meli- 
cent came in with Harriet from the front yard, where she 
had been watering the flowers and the vines freshly 
planted around the new summer-house. Leaning against 
the post, she listened to Heifs music, that had a wild 
sweetness peculiar to it. Manch, sitting inside the room 
by the table with its lighted lamp, was absorbed in a sum. 
A moment before, the tall, gaunt figure of Hagar had 
been seen stalking across the yard in the direction of the 
stable, which she insisted on locking every night with her 
own hands, after she had first inspected the horses. Har- 
riet sat on the door-step, fanning herself with a broad 
leaf of the Palm-of-Christian’s. All at once there rose 
from the cottonwood tree near at hand the mournful cry 
of the screech-owl, or death-owl, as it is superstitiously 
called. Harriet started up in affright, and ran trembling 
to Melicent. 

“ It’s a bad sign ! ” she cried. “ Something’s going to 
happen.” 

“Something is always happening,” Melicent said 
cheerfully ; but that quivering wail had struck a chill to 
her heart also. 

“ There, Pretty Lady I ” cried Harriet, “ I have turned 


^98 


MAMK, 


your glove wrong side out. I will shake it at him and he 
will fly away.” 

She did so ; there was a rustle in the foliage, and the 
owl flew away with a soft whir. 

“ There ! ” said the girl, relieved. But as she uttered 
the exclamation, the cry rang from the tree close beside 
the porch where they sat. It was followed by the pecu- 
liar shuddering moan that sometimes closes the note of 
the bird. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Harriet; “that’s the death-trem- 
bles ! The sign means death ! it means death ! ” 

She ran into the house and closed the door behind 
her. Heil rose and drove the owl away, but the circum- 
stance had affected him. The feeling of impending ca- 
lamity, the premonition that something strange and awful 
was about to occur, came over him more strongly. To 
dispel it, he began to play again ; but it seemed that only 
melancholy notes would come from the strings of his 
violin. Moved by some irrepressible impulse, he sang the 
song so associated in his mind with Melicent — the old, 
simple ballad of love and despair — “ Beneath the Willow- 
Tree.” His timidity seemed to vanish, and on the last 
verse he dwelt with all the pathos of his voice : 

“ She hears me not, she cares not, 

Nor will she list to me ; 

While here I lie, alone to die, 

Beneath the willow-tree.” 

In the heavy hush of the evening air, the leaves of 
the cottonwood did not stir. Heil could hear Melicent’s 
deep, agitated breathing, as she leaned so near him. A 
strange feeling came over him. His soul seemed to ex- 


MAKCK, 


299 


pand — to claim for the first time affinity and equality 
with that of the woman by his side. At the same time, 
a sadness, deep but quiet, weighed upon him. Involun- 
tarily a heavy sigh escaped him. Melicent broke the 
silence. 

‘‘ I do not think it is right for you to be^ exposed to 
the night air. Remember you are not yet well.” 

“ The air is cool to my forehead,” he said. “ My 
head aches and feels heavy.” 

“ I am afraid you have fever again,” Melicent said 
anxiously. Then she laid her hand lightly against his 
forehead. He was bolder than he had ever been since 
their meeting. He put his own hand over hers and drew 
her fingers to his lips in a long, fervent kiss. Tears 
gushed from his eyes and fell upon Melicent’s hand. 
Impelled by a swift rush of pity and tenderness, she 
bent down and kissed his forehead, when suddenly she 
felt herself clasped in his arms and pressed to his breast. 

Did he notice her involuntary shrinking from his em- 
brace ? He withdrew his arms from around her. 

“ Forgive me,” he murmured sadly. It seemed to 
me that you were Milly again, and that I was dying — 
parting from you for ever.” 

It seemed strange and morbid, but such was his feel- 
ing at the moment ; and when it passed, the shadowy 
presentiment lingered and weighed upon him. 

Harriet came out upon the porch. 

“I wonder where mother is? ” she said. “ She went 
out, and has never come back.” 

Neil rose hastily, his vague uneasiness at once taking 
shape. It was nothing unusual for Hagar to be abroad 
at night. When there was moonlight especially, she 


300 


MAJSrCH. 


often wandered about for hours alone, in a restless, pur- 
poseless way. But to-night Neil felt as if her wander- 
ings might have more design. From the look of her eye 
that day, she was not to be trusted. There had been in- 
sanity in its gleam. He went out at once, saying, in 
reply to Melicent’s remonstrance upon his imprudence, 
that he was only going a little way; his mother was 
probably around the yard or stable ; he would get her 
to come in, for a storm seemed coming up. There had 
been, indeed, a change in the sky and in the air within 
the last few moments. There was a low sound of wind 
in the topmost branches of the trees, though the air 
below was still close and foggy. The cloud-pall that 
covered the sky had darkened visibly, and but a faint 
moonlight illumined Neil’s pathway. He did not once 
stop to think, but, drawn by a fear that scarcely shaped 
itself into thought, he made his way to the railroad track. 
With every step he took, the darkness increased, and a 
misty rain began to fall. The point he aimed to reach 
was a broad ravine, across which the track was laid upon 
a steep embankment. It was a mile from the house, 
and his limbs were much weakened by the recent fever. 
Before he reached the place he was tottering with ex- 
haustion; but he dragged himself along through the 
darkness, the rain, and the wind, until at last he gained 
the ravine. He stepped upon the embankment, and 
staggered a few paces forward. A black mass rose be- 
fore him, undefined in the darkness. He stood still, and 
at that instant a fiash of light revealed what the obstacle 
was, and proved the justness of his fears. Eight across 
the railroad track was piled a heap composed of logs, 
rails, blocks, and sticks of wood, dead limbs of trees, and 


MAJ^CH. 


301 


other substances, to the height of several feet ; and be- 
hind it stood Hagar — her eyes rolling wildly, drops of 
perspiration standing on her swarthy forehead, the veins 
swollen on her temples, the muscles standing out on her 
bare arms in the terrific exertion she had used to collect 
the heavy materials and rear the pile she designed as the 
instrument of death. The wild strength of insanity, 
added to her own great muscular power, had enabled her 
to do the work with astonishing rapidity. In the bright 
fiash of lightning, E’eil saw her form, her face, her terri- 
ble eyes, with vivid distinctness. She saw him also ; her 
eyes glared like those of a tigress about to be deprived 
of its prey. 

“ Back ! ” she cried. ‘‘ Go back, wretched boy. You 
have no business here ! ” 

He did not answer. He paused one instant, while 
his mind took in the emergency. In a few moments, he 
knew, the train with the party of excursionists would be 
here. It would rush around the curve — a little distance 
beyond — and in the rain and darkness, the head-light 
would fail to reveal the obstruction until too late ; the 
cars would be thrown off the track and down the steep 
embankment, with all their freight of lives — with the 
one life that was so dear to Tier^ so necessary to her 
happiness. It would be useless for him to fry to at- 
tract the notice of the engineer ; he was too exhausted 
to run forward and shout, even if his feeble shout- 
ing could be heard above the roar and rush of the train ; 
and he had no materials wherewith to strike a signal- 
light. 

At once he formed his resolve, and, exhausted as he 
was, began to lay hold of the obstructions and throw 


302 


MAXCH. 


them from the track. She darted upon him and caught 
his arm. 

“ Let it alone I ” she shrieked. “ Fool ! what are you 
about % You can’t throw it all off in time. The train 
will be here in two minutes, and he is on it. Do you 
hear ? He is on it — the man she loves ! He will be killed 
— crushed to pieces, as he deserves — and Melicent will be 
yours ! ” 

He did not speak ; he had not strength or breath to 
spare ; he needed all his feeble power to lift the obstacles, 
one by one, and throw them beyond the rails. She quit- 
ted her hold of him, sprang after the pieces he had thrown 
off, and began to hurl them back upon the pile. Then 
he turned upon her, and panting gasped out : 

“ Stop, I charge you, or by the God above I will de- 
nounce you as the one who did this! You will hang 
upon the gallows ! ” 

At that threat she stopped. She had seen her hus- 
band hung ; her son, with the rope around his neck, strug- 
gling in agony. The gallows had a terror even for her. 
She stopped and stepped back a pace, but still called upon 
him to hold, shaking her bony arm at him in rage and dis- 
traction. 

Let it be ! ” she cried. “ It is no business of 
yours what happens. It is not your doing. Go back 
home ; get into your bed. To-morrow Melicent will be 
yours.” 

He lifted a long, heavy rail and turned it from the 
road. 

“Melicent pities you, but she loves him — she loves 
him; she will go to him yet!” shrieked the mad wo- 
man. 


MAJVCn. 


303 


He uttered no word of reply. All the slender power 
of his enfeebled frame was needed for the task before him. 
His brain reeled — his breath came in short gasps — fierce 
pains darted through his body — his limbs shook, as though 
they would sink under him. The weakness was overpow- 
ering, but he struggled desperately against it. 

“ O God, give me strength ! ” he prayed as his fingers 
closed upon the objects composing the pile, now lessen- 
ing under his exertions. 

Suddenly a whirring, roaring noise was heard. It 
came nearer. 

It is the train ! ” shouted Hagar. “ Come away ! 
They will find us here ; we will be taken up. Come, I 
am going ! ” 

She grasped his arm, but he shook her off and went 
on with his work. The roaring increased; the heavy 
panting of the engine could be heard directly around the 
curve. It was rushing on at full speed. 

Come ! ” again shouted Hagar. “ I tell you they 
will find us here and arrest us ! ” 

She ran a few steps along the track, calling to him in 
a voice of alarm and agony. He did not heed her. 
There were now a few small obstacles upon the track and 
one large piece of split timber. A strong, well man could 
have raised it with ease, but JS’eiPs feeble strength was 
nearly spent. The head-light of the train, glaring dimly 
through rain and mist, burst into sight around the curve 
as Neil, concentrating all his remaining vitality in one 
desperate effort, lifted the timber and threw it outside the 
rails. As he did so he staggered and fell heavily across 
the track. With a wild scream, his mother darted to him 
and bent to lift him in her arms. It was too late. The 


304 


MAKCH. 


panting, fire-breathing engine rushed upon them like a 
living demon. A cry from the engineer, a jolt, a shrill 
whistle, a shriller, blood-curdling shriek from Hagar, and 
the train thundered on. 

The engine was speedily reversed ; men leaped from 
the cars while the train was yet in motion, and hurried 
back to the scene of the catastrophe. There lay the vic- 
tims — one dead, with his calm face upturned to the sky ; 
the other fearfully crushed, mortally wounded, hut still 
alive — still able to glare at them with the wild eyes of a 
dying tigress. 

“ Go away ! ” she cried, as Mr. Avery pressed nearer. 
“Don’t come here to gloat over my pain. You, you are 
the cause of this. If I could have killed you, I would 
die satisfied. Now, you have your wish ; he is dead, and 
you have her for your own ! Curse you — curse you for 
ever ! ” 


CHAPTEE XXII. 

Nearly two years had passed since the death of Neil 
and Hagar. Melicent was standing one summer evening 
with Harriet and two young girls under the shade of a 
great oak in front of a pleasant country-house a few miles 
from St. Louis. She was gi’aver and paler than when we 
saw her first as Mr. Avery’s bride ; but there was a depth 
of feeling in her eye and in the tones of her voice, and 
there was the sweetness of charity and sympathy in her 
smile. She had known much sorrow, and it had deep- 
ened and purified her nature. She had been for the past 


MAJ^CH. 


305 


eighteen months a music-teacher in a female seminary in 
St. Louis. It was now her vacation, and she was spend- 
ing the holiday with one of her pupils, whose home was 
a short distance in the country. 

Manch had also his summer vacation, and the present 
of a gun and a set of fishing-tackle from his mother made 
him so much a denizen of the woods that Melicent began 
to fear lest with the revival of old habits there might be 
a recurrence of the deep melancholy that had possessed 
him for so long a time after his father’s death. She knew 
the woods had sorrowful associations for the child — asso- 
ciations that would not soon be forgotten ; for he had 
mourned the loss of his father with a passionate persist- 
ence of grief. It was for his sake even more than her 
own that Melicent had left Alluvia — a spot burdened 
with sad reminiscences. She placed him at a school but 
a few doors from the institute where she taught, and 
where she had been permitted to .keep Harriet. The 
girl’s gentle, affectionate ways, and her unselfish diwsposi- 
tion, made her a universal favorite in the seminary. She 
would never be of strong intellect, but her mind had 
developed greatly, and she exhibited an extraordinary 
genius, or rather instinct, for music. It was a pure gift 
of nature, for she knew not a note of music nor would she 
ever be able to comprehend it as a science ; but she could 
play with marvelous sweetness any tune she liked, and 
she sang with a pathos and purity that constantly re- 
minded Melicent of Heil. She resembled him also in 
features, and her eyes, with their long lashes, had the 
same wistful sadness, with sometimes a startled glance 
like that of a frightened deer. 

She was the first to discover a horseman who came 


?M MAJ^CH, 

riding rapidly to the house. When he saw the group 
under the tree, he dismounted, and came toward them 
with a letter in his hand. Approaching Melicent, whom 
he seemed to know, the messenger held out the envelope, 
saying: 

“ Here is a telegram marked ‘ Haste.’ It came for 
you three days ago, and was sent to the seminary. I did 
not know of it until this afternoon, when I determined 
to ride out and bring it to you.” 

Thanking him, Melicent took the slip of paper hur- 
riedly from the inclosure, and read : 

Mr. Avery is very ill. He raves for you incessant- 
ly. Come at once. 

‘‘ Wilson.” 

Very ill! And the telegram was dated three days 
ago. Oh ! most likely he was already dead ! Dead ! with- 
out her having seen him — without her having obtained 
his forgiveness for her coldness, her unkindness in refus- 
ing to see him before she left Alluvia, or to reply to the 
letters he sent breathing the tenderest devotion. With 
ISTeil’s dead face fresh in her mind, with the thought of 
his lonely, patient, sorrowful life before her, it had seemed 
a sacrilege to think of love and happiness — to see or com- 
municate with the man who had supplanted Heil in her 
heart. 

And so she had gone away from Alluvia, and in alt 
this time she had sent no token of remembrance to 
Mr. Avery, and had returned, without a word, an inclo- 
sure of money she knew had been sent by him. So un- 
kind had she been to him in her remorseful regret for 




SOY 

Neil. Yet she had loved him all the while — had pined 
for one look from the blue eyes that, so cold to others, 
were so tender to her. Weary and lonely, she had often 
stifled the longing to rest in his strong arms. Was it too 
late — too late for love, or even for forgiveness ? As the 
train whirled her away across the night-darkened country, 
she chided its slowness as hill and plain, town and river 
went flying past. 

At last the goal was reached, her journey was at an 
end. The cab set her down at the door of the well-re- 
membered house. She rang the bell with a trembling 
hand. In the hall she came face to face with Dr. Wil- 
son. He extended his hand with a smile. Oh ! the joy- 
ful assurance there was in that smile ! 

“ He is better ; he passed the crisis four days ago,” 
he said in answer to the inquiry in her haggard eyes. 
‘‘ He expects you. Come to him at once ; your presence 
will be a better restorative than my medicine.” 

Leaving Manch and Harriet below, she went with Dr. 
Wilson up stairs. At the door of the sick-room he signed 
to her to remain without while he entered alone. She 
could hear him say to his patient : 

‘‘Be calm, my friend. She has come, she is here; 
but you must be quiet.” 

“ Yes, yes. Doctor ; only let me see her at once,” re- 
turned the low, eager voice. 

Dr. Wilson reappeared outside, with tears in his smil- 
ing eyes. 

“ Go in,” he said ; “ God bless you ! ” and he shook 
hands with Melicent. 

Aleck was sitting in an easy-chair, with his dressing- 
grown wrapped around him. He stretched out his arms 


308 


MAJ^CH. 


and tried to rise, but the effort was too much for him, 
and he fell back upon the seat. 

She came to him; she knelt down beside him, and 
put her arms around him. Both were silent w^hile theii 
hearts throbbed together after the long separation. 

“ My darling,” he said at length, “ you have come 
to me at last. You kept away from me so long, Melicent. 
I have been so desolate, so miserable without you.” 

“ My heart has been with you all the while,” she 
whispered, looking up at him with beaming eyes. 

That evening there was a marriage ceremony in the 
sick-room. Those whom a strange fate had parted, were 
now united in a bond that death alone should sever. 
There were no witnesses save the officiating minister, 
Manch, Harriet, and good Dr. Wilson. 

Two Sabbaths afterward they attended church to- 
gether, and many came forward after service with out- 
stretched hands of welcome and congratulation. Melicent 
acknowledged their attentions with gentle courtesy, 
once did her lip curl at the memory of past unkind- 
ness, and the suspicion of present hypocrisy and hollow- 
ness. Much sorrow had taught her charity, and from 
the lesson of NeiPs life she had learned patience and 
gentleness. 

When the congregation had dispersed, Mr. Avery led 
Melicent out into the churchyard, lying with all its peace- 
ful graves in the shade and sunshine of the still summer 
afternoon. He stopped beneath a live-oak tree hung with 
long moss. Underneath it was a new and beautiful mon- 
ument. The design was peculiar. A cross of black 
marble rested lengthwise upon a heart carved of the 
purest white marble, without flaw or blemish. This in 


MAKCH. 


309 


turn rested upon a slab, bordered bj a wreath of carved 
ivy-leaves and supported by four marble pedestals. Upon 
the slab Melicent read through her tears : 

‘‘ IN MEMORY 
OF 

NEIL GRIFFIN, 

WHO WITH A PURE AND BRAVE HEART 
BORE THROUGH LIFE 
A CROSS 

HEAVY WITH MANY TRIALS ; 

A MARTYR, 

WHO, IN SAVING OTHER LIVES, 

SACRIFICED HIS OWN.” 


THE ENDo 


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W. Jj. Douglas !!ihoe for Ladies. Sizes 1 to 7, and half sizes: B, C. D. 

E, ER widths. 

Shoe for Ijtidies. Slz^^s 1 to 7. Including half sizes; C, D, E, and EE widths. 
VV. li. Douglas $1.75 Shoe for blisses, ll to 2 and half sizes, regular and 
spring heels. 

W L. I’ouglas’s name and the pvioe are '^tnmpod on bottom of all shoes, and 
OTerv pair are warranted. Send nanie .-md addi-ess on postal card for valu- 
able information. W. li. DOUl'iL V S, Drocktou, 3lnss. 


$s.oo 

Best Dongola. 

$• 4.00 

Extra Value 
for the price. 

$ 1 . 7 .^ 

For MISSES. 

For Boys and 
Youths. 

$•4 A $ 1.75 

SCHOOL 


LIBRARY of AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


TO BE ISSUED DECEMBER 27; 

NO. 27, 

HER SECOND CHOICE. 

By charlotte M. STANLEY. 
Price 25 Cents. 


NO. PRICK. 

26 MANCH. By Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. 25 
25 THE BELLE OF SARATOGA. 

By Lucy Randall Comfort... 25 

24 HAZEL KIRKE. By Marie 


Walsh 25 

23 LOVE AND JEALOUSY. By 
Lucy Randall Comfort 25 


22 THE BRIDE OF MONTE- 
CRISTO. A Sequel to “The 
Count of Monte-Cristo ” 

21 SWORN TO SILENCE: or, 
Aunk Rodney’s Secret. By 
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

20 MURIEL; or, Because of His 
Love for Her. By Christine 


Carlton 25 

19 MARRIED FOR MONEY. By 
Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

18 LAUREL VANE ; or. The Girls’ 
Conspiracy. By Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 25 

17 VENDETTA; or. The Southern 
Heiress. By Lucy Randall 
Comfort 25 


16 LITTLE ROSEBUD’S LOVERS; 
or, a Cruel Revenge. By 

Laura Jean Libbey 

15 A STRUGGLE FOR A HEART; 
or, Crystabel’s Fatal Love. 
By Laura Jean Libbey 


NO. PRICE. 


14 ALL FOR LOVE OF A FAIR 
FACE ; OR, A Broken Be- 
trothal. By Laura Jean Lib- 
bey 25 

13 UNCLE NED S WHITE CHILD. 

By Mrs. Mary E. Bryan 25 

12 IDA CHALONER’S HEART; or, 
The Husband’s Trial. By 

Lucy Randall Comfort 25 

11 JUNIE’S LOVE-TEST. By Lau- 
ra Jean Libbey 25 

10 LEONIE LOCKE; or. The Ro- 
mance OF A Beautiful New 
York Working - Girl. By 

Laura Jean Libbey 25 

9 SAINTS AND SINNERS. By 

Marie Walsh 25 

8 MADOLIN RIVERS. By Laura 

Jean Libbey 25 

7 I-IZZIE ADRIANCE. By Mar- 
garet Lee 25 


6 MARRIAGE. By Margaret Lee 25 
5 THE HEIRESS OF CAMERON 
HALL. By Laura Jean Libbey 25 
4 DAISY BROOKS. By Laura 


Jean Libbey 25 

3 SHADOW AND SUNSHINE. By 
Adna H. Lightner 25 


25 2 THE ROCK OR THE RYE. 

(Comic). By T. C. DeLeon ... 25 
1 MY OWN SIN. By Mrs. Mary 
25 E. Bryan 25 


Others will follow at short intervals. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent by mail on 
receipt of the price. Address 

GEOHGBi MUNRO, Munro*s Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


Old Sleuth Library. 


A Series of the Most Thrilling 
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1 Old Sleuth, the Detective 

2 Tlie Kinjf of the Detectives 10c 

3 Old Sleuth's Triumph (1st half) 10c 

3 Old Sleuth’s Triumph (2d half) 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises (1st 


Half 10c 

4 Under a Million Disguises (2d 

half 10c 

5 Night Scenes in New York 10c 

6 Old Electricity, the Lightning 

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7 The Shadow Detective (1st half) 10c 

7 The Shadow Detective (2d half) 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River De- 

tective (1st half) 10c 

8 Red-Light Will, the River De- 

tective (2d half). 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government 

Detective (1st half) 10c 

9 Iron Burgess, the Government 

Detective (2d half) 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York (1st 

half) 10c 

10 The Brigands of New York (2d 

half) 10c 

11 Tracked by a Ventriloquist 10c 

12 The Twin Shadowers 10c 

13 The French Detective 10c 

14 Billy Wayne, the St. Louis De- 

tective 10c 

15 The New York Detective 10c 

16 O’Neil McDarragh, the Detect- 

ive; or. The Strategy of a 
Brave Man 10c 

17 Old Sleiith in Harness Again... 10c 

18 The Lady Detective 10c 

19 The Yankee Detective lOc 

20 The Fastest Boy in New York. . 10c 

21 Black Raven, the Georgia De- 

tective 10c 

22 Night-hawk, the Mounted De- 

23 The Gypsy Detective 10c 

24 The Mysteries and Miseries of 

New York 10c 

25 Old Terrible 10c 

26 The Smugglers of NewYork Bay 10c 

27 Manfred, the Magic Trick De- 

tective 10c 

28 Mura, the Western Lady De- 

tective 10c 

29 Mons. Armand ; or. The French 

Detective in New York 10c 

30 Lady Kate, the Dashing Female 

Detective (1st half) 10c 

SO Lady Kate, the Dashing Female 

Detective (2d half) 10c 

31 Hamud, the Detective 10c 

32 The Giant Detective in France 

list half) 10c 


32 The Giant Detective in France 

(2d half) 10c 

33 The American Detective in 

Russia lOc 

34 The Dutch Detective 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 

kee Detective (1st half) 10c 

35 Old Puritan, the Old-Time Yan- 

kee Detective (2d half) 10c 

36 Manfred’s Quest; or. The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (1st half)... 10c 

36 Manfred’s Quest; or, The Mys- 

tery of a Trunk (2d half) 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (1st half) 10c 

37 Tom Thumb; or. The Wonderful 

Boy Detective (2d half) 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (1st half). 10c 

38 Old Ironsides Abroad (2d half). 10c 

39 Little Black T.)im ; or. The Ad- 

ventures of a Mischievous 
Darky (1st half) 10c 

39 Little Black Tom; or. The Ad- 

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Darky (2d half) 10c 

40 Old Ironsitles Among the Cow- 

boys (1st half) 10c 

40 Old Ii onsides Among the Cow- 

boys (2d half) 10c 

41 Black Tom in Search of a Fa- 

ther; or, the Further Advent- 
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(1st half) 10c 

41 Black Tom in Searcli of a Fa- 

ther ; or, the Further Advent- 
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(2d half) lOc 

42 Bonanza Bardie; or, the Treas- 

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42 Bonanza Bardie; or, the Treas- 

ure of the Rockies (2d half). . 10c 

43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 

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43 Old Transform, the Secret Spe- 

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44 TheKiugof the Shadowers (1st 

half) 10c 

44 The King of the Shadowers (2d 

half) 10c 

45 Gasparoni, the Italian Detect- 

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46 Old Sleuth’s Luck lOc 

47 The Irish Detective 10c 

48 Down in a Coal Mine 10c 

49 Faithful Mike, the Irish Hero.. 10c 

To be issued Sept. 1S90: 

50 Silver Tom the Detective; or, 

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Detective Stories Ever Published! 

I8SUED QUARTER liY. 

10c 


A handsome catalogue containing complete and classified lists o/ all George 
Munro's publications will be mailed to any address on receipt of 10 cents. 

The above books are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any ad- 
dress, postage prepaid, on receipt of 12 (‘ents each Address 

<4EOIM4E illUNKO. ^Iniiro'is I’libliNliiiis: House. 

(F. O Box 3751.) 17 to '27 tniidc^'uier S*treef, New York* 






Nachfolgende Werke sind in der 

1 Der Kaiser von Prof. Q. Ebers 20 

2 Die Somosierra von R. Wald- 

mtlller 10 

8 Das Geheimnissderalten Mam- 
sell. Roman von E. Marlitt. 10 

4 Quisisana von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

5 Gartenlauben • Bliithen von E. 


Werner 20 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis von E. 

A. K5ni^ 20 

T Amtmann’s Ma^d v. E. Marlitt 20 

8 Vineta von E. Werner 20 

9 Auf der Riimmingsburg von M. 

WIddern 10 

10 Das Haus Hillel von Max Ring 20 

11 Gliickauf ! von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn von F. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wiirger von Paris von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantschleifer von Ro- 

senthal-Bonin 10 

16 Ingo und Ingraban von Gustav 

Frey tag 20 

17 Eine Frage von Georg Ebers. . 10 

18 Im Paradiese von Paul Heyse 20 

19 In beiden Hemisphfiren von 

Sutro 10 

20 Gelebt und gelitten von H. Wa- 

chentiusen 20 

21 Die Eichhofs von M. von Rei- . 

chenbach 10 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

Erste Hfilfte 20 

22 Kinder der Welt von P. Heyse. 

ZweiteHSlfte 20 

23 Barfiissele von Berthold Auer- 

bach 10 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkdnige von 

G. Frevtag 20 

25 Frtihlingsboten von E. Werner 10 

26 Zelle No. 7 von Pierre Zacone 20 

27 Die junge Frau v. H. Wachen- 

husen 20 

28 Buchenheim von Th. v. Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf derBahn des Verbrechens 

V. Ewald A. K6nig 20 

80 Brigitta von Berth. Auerbach . . 10 

81 Im Schillingshof v. E. Marlitt 20 

82 Gesprengte Fesseln v. E. Wer- 

ner 10 

88 Der Heiduck von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

84 Die Sturmhexe von Grftfln M. 

Keyserling 10 

35 Das kind Bajazzo’s von E. A. 

KCnig 20 


86 Die Briider vom deutschen 

Haiise von Gustav Frevtag. . 20 

87 Der Wilddieb v. F. Gerst&cker 10 
38 DieVerlobte von Rob. Wald- 

mttller - 20 

89 Der Doppelgilnger von L. 

Chucking 10 


,, Deutschen Library “ erschieneti; 


•*0 Die weisse Frau von Greifen- 
stein von E. Fels 21 

41 Hans und Grete von Fr. Spiel- 

hagen 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan von H. 

Hopfen r 20 

43 Markus Kdnig v. Gustav Frey- 

tag 20 

44 Die schSnen Amerikanerinnen 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos v. A. K6nig.. 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes von Sacher 

und Ultimo v. F. Spieliiagen 10 

47 Die Geschwister von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Bischof und Kdnig von Mariam 

Tenger und Der PiratenkC- 
nig von M. Jokai 10 

49 ReichsgrSfin Gisela v. Marlitt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiten v.Leon Alexan- 

dre witsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben von E. A. 

K6nig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt v. Gu- 

stav Frey tag 20 

53 Hildegard von Ernst v.Waldow 10 

54 Dame Orange von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnaebt von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela von Fr. Spielhagen... 20 

57 Falsche Wege von J. v. Brun- 

Barnow 10 

58 Versunkene Welten von Wilh. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die Wohnungssucher von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million von E. A. K6nig 20 

61 Das Skelet von F. Spielhagen 

und Das FrClenhaus von Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Erste Haifte 20 

62 Soil und Haben v. G. Freytag. 

Zweite Haifte 20 

63 Schloss Grtinwald von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen V. Kath. Sutro-Schtteking 10 

• 66 Das Haideprinzesschen von E. 

Marlitt 20 

67 Die Geyer-Wally von Wilh. von 

Hille'rn -0 

68 Idealisten von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft von A. v. 

Winterfeld 2U 

71 Moschko von Parma v. Karl E. 

Franzos 10 

72 Schuld und Stihne von Ewald 

A. Kdnig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

hageu. Erste Haifte 2(1 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 




73 In Reih’ und Glied v. F. Spiel- 

haKt*n. Zweite Haifte 20 

74 Geheimniese einer kleinen 

Stadt von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Das Landhans am Rhein von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 20 

75 Das Landliaus am Rliein von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte 20 

76 Clara Vere von Friedrich Spiel- 


ha^en 10 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin von 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft von Wilh. 

V, Hillern 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Recht von K. 

Franzos 20 

80 Prinzessin Schnee von Marie 

Widdern 10 


81 Die zweite Frau von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto von F’anny Lewald 10 

83 Pessiniisten von F. von Stengel 20 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin 

von F. von Witzlebeu-Weu- 


delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrliundert von B. 

Young 20 

86 Thiiringer Erz&hlungen von E. 

Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vorn armen egyptischen Mann 

V. Hans VVachenhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjaiirigen Krieg v. E. 

A. Konif? 20 

90 Das Fr&ulein von St. Ama- 

ranthe von R. von Gottschall 10 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro v. 

A. VVinterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz von E Falk 10 

93 Uarda von Georg Ebers 20 


94 In der zwolften Stunde von 

Fried. Spielhagen und Ebbe 
und Fluth von M. Widdern... 10 

95 Die von Holienstein von Fr. 

Spielhagren. Erste HSlfte. . 20 

95 Die von Holienstein von Fr. 

SpielbaKcn. Zweite Hfilfte.. 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch v. Lucian 


Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene von H. Wachenliusen 

und Die Prinzessin von Por- 
tugal V. A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia v<m Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard v. Victor v. Scheffel 20 

101 Ein Kampf nm Rom v. F.Dahn. 

Erste HSlfte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom v.F.Dahn. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

102 Spinoza von Berth. Auerbach. 20 

103 Von der Erde zum Mond von 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgrnss der Legionen 

von G. Samarow 20 

i06 Reise um den Mond von Julius 

Veme 10 


106 Fiirst und Musiker von Max 

Ring 20 

107 Nena Sahib v. J. Retcliflfe. Er- 

ster Band 20 

107 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliffe. 

Zweiter Band 90 

107 Nena Sahib von J. Retcliflfe. 

DritterBand 2^ 

108 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

der Erde von Julius Veme If 

109 Die silberne Hochzeit von S. 

Kohn 10 

110 Das Spukehaus von A. v. Win- 

terfeld 20 

111 Die Erben des Wahnsinns von 

T. Marx 10 

112 Der Ulan von Joh. van Dewall 10 
113. Um hohen Preis v. E. Werner 20 
114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten von B. Auerbach. Erste 
Halfte 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten V. B. Auerbach. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

115 Reise um die Erde von Julius 

Verne 10 

116 Casars Ende von S. J. A 

(Schluss von 104) 20 

117 Auf Capri von Carl Detlef 10 

118 Severa von E. Hartner 20 

119 Ein Arzt der Seele von Wilh. 

V. Hillern 20 

120 Die Livergnas von Hermann 

Willfried 10 

121 Zvvanzigtausend Meilen un- 

term Meer von J. Verne 20 

122 Mutter und Sohn von August 

Godin 10 

123 Das Haus des Fabrikanten v. 

Samarow 20 

124 Bruderpflicht und Liebe von 

Schiicking 10 


125 Die Rdmerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. Erste Haifte 20 

125 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen 

V. G. Samarow. ZweiteHaifte 20 

126 Porkeles und Porkelessa von 


J Scherr 10 

127 Ein Fi’iedensstorer von Victor 

Bluthgen und Der heimUche 
Gast von R. Byr 20 

128 SchOne Frauen v. R. Edmund 

Hahn lO 

129 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager 

von A. Niemann 20 

130 Getrennt. Roman von E.Polko 10 

131 Alte Ketten. Roman von L. 

Schticking..... 20 

132 Ueber die Wolken v. Wilhelm 

Jensen 10 

133 Das Gold des Orion von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin 10 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama- 

row. Erste Haifte 20 

134 Um den Halbmond von Sama* 

row. Zweite Haifte 20 

135 Troubadour - Novellen vo» V 

Rey*© 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


8 


186 Der Schweden-Schatz von H. 

Wachenhiisen 20 

137 Die Bettlerin vonti Pont des 

Arts nnd Das Bild des Kaisers 
von Wilh. Hauff 10 

138 Modelle. Hist. Roman von A. v. 

Winterfeld 20 

139 Der Kries: um die Haube von 

Stefanie Keyser 10 

140 Numa Rournestan v. Alphonse 

Daudet 20 


141 Sp&tsommer. Novelle von C. 

von Sydow und Enffelid, No- 
velle V. Balduin Aldllliaiisen 10 

142 Bartolom&iis von Brusehaver 

u. Musma Cussalin. Novellen 


von L. Ziemssien 10 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter. Ko- 
misclier Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Erste Hfilfte.. .. 20 

143 Ein gemenchelier Dichter. Ko- 

niischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Hfi,lfte.. 20 

144 Ein Wort. Neuer Roman von 

Q. Ebers 20 

145 Novellen von Paul Ileyse 10 

146 Adam Homo in Versen v. Pa- 

Judau-Milller 20 

t47 Ihr einzierer Bruder von W. 

Heimbure: 10 

148 Ophelia. Roman von H, von 

Lankenau 20 

149 Nemesis v. Helene v. Hiilsen 10 

150 Feliciras. Histor. Roman von 

F. Dahn 10 

151 Die Claiidier. Roman v. Ernst 

Eckstei n 20 

152 Eine Verlorene von Leopold 

Konjpert 10 

153 Lugrinsland. Roman von Otto 

Roquette 20 

154 Im Banne der Mnsen von W. 

Heimburgr 10 

156 Die Schwester v. L. Schttcking 10 

156 Die Colonie von Friedrich Ger- 

st&cker 20 

157 Deutsche Liebe. Roman v. M. 

Miiller 10 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels 

Erste HSlfte 20 

158 Die Rose von Delhi von Fels. 

Zweite HSlfte 20 

1.59 Debora. Roman von W. Miiller 10 

160 Eine Mntter v. Friedrich Ger- 

stScker 20 

161 Friedhofsblume von W. von 

Hillern 10 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe von K. 

Frenzel 20 


163 Gebannt u. erlOst v. E. Werner 20 

164 Uhlenhans. Roman von l<ried. 

Spielha^en 20 

165 Klvtia. Roman von G. Taylor. 20 

166 Mavo. ErzUhlnnp: v. P. Lindau 10 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein von 

F. Henkel 20 

168 Die Saxoborussen von Sama- 

yow. Frste Httifte. - • • ' 20 


Die SaxoboruMen von Sama- 

row. Zweite Hftlfte 20, 

Serapis. Roman v. G. Ebers . 20 

Ein Gottesurtheil. Roman von 

E. Werner 16 

Die Krenzfahrer. Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

Der Erbe von Weidenhof von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

Die Reise nach dem Schicksal 

V. Franzos 10 

Villa ScliOnow. Roman v. "W. 

Raabe 10 

Das VermSchtniss v. Eckstein. 

Erste Haifte 20 

Das VermSchtniss v. Eckstein. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

Herr und Frau Bewer von P. 

Lindau 10 

Die Nihilisten von Joh. Scherr 10 
Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen von E. Marlitt 20 

Jetta. Von George Taylor.... 20 
Die Stieftochter. Von J. Smith 20 
An der Heilquelle. Von Fried. 

Spielhagen 20 

Was der Todtenkopf erz&hlt, 

von Jokai 20 

Der Zigeunerbaron, von Jokai 10 
Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

Ehre, Roman V O. Schubin... 20 
Violanta. Roman v. E. Eckstein 20 
Nemi, ErzShlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 10 

Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

» Erste Hairte 20 

Strandgut, von Joh. v. Dewall. 

Zweite Haifte 20 

Homo sum, Roman von Georg 

Ebers 20 

Eine Aegyptische KSnigstoch- 
ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 

Haifte 20 

Eine Aegypti.sche Kdnigstoch- 
ter, von Georg Ebers. Zw’eite 

Haifte ?0 

Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Haifte 20 

Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zweite Haifte 20 

Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Er.«te Haifte 20 

Die Nilbraut von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite Haifte 20 

DieAndere, von W. Heimburg 20 

Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 30 

Der Roman der Stif tsdam*, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

Das Vermachtnlss Kains, von 
Sacher-Masoch. Erste Hklfte 20 

Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
Sacher-Masoch.ZweiteHaifte 20 


Frau Venus, von Karl Frehzel 2^ 


168 

169 

170 

171 

172 

173 

174 

175 

175 

176 

177 

178 

179 

180 

181 

182 

183 

184 

185 

186 

187 

188 

188 

189 

190 

190 

191 

191 

192 

192 

193 

194 

195 

196 

197 

197 

198 


4 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


199 Eine Vierielstunde Vater, von 

F. W. Hackiander 10 

200 Heimatklang:, vou E. Werner.. 10 
^1 Herzenskrisen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 

202 Die Sch western, von G. Ebers.. 20 

203 Der Egoist, von E. Werner 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein 20 

205 Lunipenmtillers Lieschen, von 

VV. Heim burg: 20 

206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag:. Erste Halfte... 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Frey tag:, Zweite Halfte. . 20 

208 Das Eulenhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatha, von H. 

Wachenhusen 20 

210 Aus dem Leben meiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Heimbnrg 20 

211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

211 Die Gred, Yon G. Ebers. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh. 

Heimburg: 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Schubin 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner. . 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 


215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 


Haifte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen, von R. Lindau 20 

217 Mandver- n. Kriegsbilder, von 

Joh. von Dewall 10 

218 Lore von Tollen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 

219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 

220 Der Referenda!’, von E. Eck- 

stein 10 

221 Das Geiger-Evchen.von A.Dom 20 

222 Die Gdtterburg, von M. Jokai 20 

223 DerKronprinzunddiedeutsche 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 

224 Nicht im Geleise, von Ida Boy- 

Ed 20 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 

226 Josua, eine" Erzahlnng aus bib- 

lischer Zeit, von G, Ebers 20 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werue. Erster Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Zweiter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Dritter Band 20 

2’28 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Viei ter Band 20 

229 In geistigerirre, von H. Kohler 20 

230 Flammenzeichen, v. E. Werner 20 

231 Der Seelsorger, von V. Valentin 10 


Halfte 20 

Ein schoner nusgearheiteter Catalog^ enihaltend eine alphdbetuche List, 
vtird von Georok MuNRo/ttr 10 cents an alle Adressen versendet. 

„Die Deutsche Library" ist bei alien Zeitungshandlern zu haben, Oder 
wird gegen 12 Cents fiir einfache Nummern, oder 25 Cents fUr Doppelnum- 
mern nach irgend einer Adresse portofrei versendet. Bei Bestellungen durch 
die Post bittet man nach Niimmern zu bestellen. 


®)cor£(C QiriiiTTro, 

P, O. Box 3751. 17 to !i7 Vandewater Street, New York. 


The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

WITH HANDSOME IJTHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
tion and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes, 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to health and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
price, by the publisher. 

Address GEORGE MUNRO, Rniiro’s Piiblisliiiig’ House, 

(P. 0. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vande water Street, New York, 


MUKRO’S PUBLICATIONS^ S. 


MUNRO’S FRENCH SERIES. 

No. 1. An Elementary Grammar of the French Language. 

By ILLIOlSr CONSTELLANO. 

Nos. 2 and 3. Practical Guides to the French Language. 

By LUCIEN OUDDT, A.M. 

PRICE 25 CENTS EACH. 


HUNTERS’ TARNS: 

A Collection of Wild and Amusing' Adventures 


PRICE 25 CENTS. 


Kitchen Lessons for Yonnn Hcnseleepers. 

By ANNIE H. JEROME. 

PRICE 10 CENTS. 


ISTTEB-fRITING MADE EASY. 

PRICE 10 CENTS. 


Munro’s Dialogues and Speakers. 

No. 1. The Funny Fellow’s Dialogues. 

No. 2. The Clemence and Donkey Dialogues. 

No. 3. Mrs. Smith’s Boarders’ Dialogues. 

No. 4. Schoolboys’ Comic Dialogues. 

No 1. Vot I Know ’Bout Gruel Societies Speaker. 

No. 2. The John B. Go-off Comic Speaker. 

No. 3. My Boy Vilhelm’s Speaker. 

PRICE 10 CENTS EACH. 


The above works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent by mal 
OB receipt of the price. Address 

GEORGE mUNHO. Miinro's Piiblisliiiig: House. 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewnter Street, New York. 


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4 


MUNRO*S PUBLICATIOITS. 


The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
ti' -n and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes 
and body, that detract from appearance and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to health and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage pre* 
paid, on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro's Publishing House, 

(P. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


I The New York Fashion Bazar Book of Etiquette. 

' PRICE ‘25 CENTS. * 

1 This book is a guide to good manners and the ways of fashionable society; 
'['a complete hand-book of behavior: containing all the polite observances of 
modern life; the Etiqiiette of engagements and marriages; the manners and 
M training of children; the arts of conversation and polite letter-writing; invi- 
(jtations to dinners, evening parties and entertainments of all descriptions; 
I table manners, etiquette of visits and public places; how to serve breakfasts, 
[ luncheons, dinners and teas; how to dress, travel, shop, and behave at hotels 
l and watering-places. This book contains all that a lady and gentleman re 
quires for correct behavior on all social occasions. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address on receipt of 
■ price, 25 cents, postage prepaid, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 
fP. O. Box 3751.) 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


THE NEW YORK FASHION BAZAR 

Model Letter-Writer and Lovers’ Oracle. 

PRICE ‘25 CENTS. 

This book is a complete guide for both ladies and gentlemen in elegant 
and fashionable letter-writing: containing perfect examples of every form of 
coi-respondence, business letters, love letters, letters to relatives and friends, 
wedding and reception cards, invitations to entertainments, letters accepting 
and declining invitations, lettf^rs of introduction and recommendation, letters 
of condolence and duty, widows’ and widowers’ letters, love letters for all 
occasions, proposals of marriage, letters between betrothed lovers, letters of 
a young girl to her sweetheart, correspondence relating to household man- 
agement, letters accompanying gifts, etc. Every form of letter used in affaii'S 
of the heart will be found in this little book. It contains simple and full di- 
rections for writing a good letter on all occasions. The latest forms used in 
the best society have been carefully followed.^ It is an excellent manual of 
reference for all forms of engraved cards and invitations. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail to any address, postage paid, 
on receipt of price, 25 cents, by the publisher. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

17 to 27 Vandewater Street, New York. 


(P.O.Box 3751.) 



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GOLD MEDAL PARIS 

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